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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

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THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA ♦ SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

;THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 




THE CANDLESTICK 

MAKERS 


BY 

LUCILLE BORDEN 

7T 

AUTHOR OF “THE GATES OF OLIVET’’ 


/|2fto gotK 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1923 

All rights reserved 




PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


.ZfcwW' 


Co. 




Copyright, 1923, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electro typed. Published October, 1923, 


FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY 
NEW YORK CITY 



C1A7C0153 



OCT -3 1923 



To 

My Mother and Father, 

Emily Carlin Papin and Theophile Papin 











CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Prelude ........ xiii 

CHAP. 

I. Why Not? ...... 1 

II. “They All Jumped Out” . . .17 

III. Hana . . . . . .33 

IV. Diana Questions . . . .46 

V. Joan Meets Judy . . . .65 

VI. Joan in Residence . . . .89 

VII. A Riddle . . . . . .116 

VIII. No Anchor? ..... 132 

IX. One Goes Home ..... 144 

X. Diana ...... 160 

XI. The Scientist ..... 182 

XII. The Shining Knight .... 194 

XIII. Aftermath ...... 209 

XIV. Matsuo Takes Action .... 224 

XV. March of the Unborn . . . 237 

XVI. “With a Wet Blanket I’ll Put It Out” 260 

XVII. A First Impression .... 275 

XVIII. Joan’s Plan ..... 287 

XIX. In Via Margutta .... 298 

XX. One Whose Hair Was Bound With 

Jewels . . . . . .311 

XXI. A Cablegram ..... 322 

XXII. Ara Coeli ...... 329 

XXIII. Atop Sant’ Angelo .... 343 

XXIV. Time Tells Its Story .... 365 

• • 

Vll 


















PRELUDE 


I T was all strange; strange fragrances, strangely 
small flowers everywhere. They were mignon 
roses though Joan did not know the name, and for¬ 
get-me-nots. A strange woman in a stiff white dress 
and cap seemed to have taken Mummie’s place. It 
was strangest of all without Mummie. Whatever 
happened before she was always there, everywhere, 
all over the house. One needed her. Presto! She 
was with you. But now? Then Daddy came. He 
found the child huddled in a corner of the draw¬ 
ing-room between the window and piano, not 
tempted to cry, but staring wonder-eyed at the 
strangeness all about. 

“Oh!” She flew at him and he lifted her high 
while she looked down into his face, searchingly. 
Then- 

“Softly, Joan. Daddy’s got something to show 
you.” 

“Where?” 

“In Mummie’s room.” 

“Shall I see her?” 

“Yes.” 


xi 



Xll 


PRELUDE 


“Shut eyes?” 

“Shut eyes. Hold on tight. Look when I tell 
you.” 

Clinging to his neck, heart throbbing in the tense 
small body, lashes curling on pale cheeks, she was 
carried in triumph up the stairs, across the door- 
sill into Mummie’s room. Still Daddy held her. 

Even here, the perfume of roses. 

“Now! Look!” 

Another rose. A bud in silky petals. A tiny liv¬ 
ing creature fast asleep. 

“It’s. ( your brother, Joan.” 

Without warning, without stirring, he woke and 
looked straight up into the marvelling face that 
watched in wonderment. 

“Oh!” cried Joan, “his eyes are like stars!” 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


CHAPTER I 

WHY NOT? 

U NCEASING rain against the windows, and 
fires dancing high on the hearth. Candles, 
lighted at mid-day, flickered odd shadows to paneled 
gothic walls. Orchids and hyacinths out of silver 
beds, lent exotic color to the room. Matsuo’s silent 
step seemed furtive as he passed between the table 
and ancient Spanish screen that stood in front of 
the pantry door. 

“So that’s why I asked you to come today. 
Well?” Hildegarde Crighton’s voice, like the action 
of her fragile hands, was quick, excited. “Come, 
sacrifice an afternoon’s auction for humanity’s 
sake.” 

“Humanity?” 

“You’ll see. You would be a skeptic, Faith. 
You’ve not heard her. Wait till you have. What 
about it, everybody?” 

Halfway down the table, Diana Travers laughed 
nervously. Since her engagement had set her free 
from an overstrict surveillance everything she 

i 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


might elect to do of her own will had assumed the 
proportions of a thrilling adventure. 

“You’ll come, Di?” urged her hostess. 

“Anywhere. Some lark. Bear us up, Hazel.” 

Directly across from her, Faith Desmond tried to 
catch Diana’s eyes, but the young girl kept them 
turned away, recklessness hidden under drooping 
fringes. 

“Why not?” 

The huskiness of a voice that answered to the 
name of Hazel was unnatural. Somehow it made 
one think of East River when the fog is thickest. 

“I believe in an open mind. Of course I’ll 
come.” 

Softly the Japanese butler glided towards the 
screen. In the pantry Hana stood mixing the salad. 
The sleeves of her native kimono were rolled well 
above the young elbows. Her cheeks were flushed 
with anxiety to make the work confided to her by 
Matsuo as perfect as he himself would want it. 

“Everybody going after lunch hear Missus 
Arachne lecture at Toy-*- ’’TV T 0*0 too.” 

“No, no, Matsuo. Not there this day. That 
lecture is not for us.” 

The dark cheeks took on a crimson hue, deep 
with a deeper apprehension. But when he took the 
bowl of salad out of her hands he only glanced at 
her and made no answer. 

The lines about his mouth, determined lines they 
were indeed, boded ill for plea or argument on the 

2 


WHY NOT? 


part of his childish wife. Back, across the dining 
room an unnatural silence had swept. 

“Angels passing?” asked Hildegarde. 

“No.” Faith spoke under her breath. “Matsuo.” 

“Nonsense. They never pay attention to the 
things we talk about. This one has been over from 
Japan only a few weeks. Suppose we discussed the 
entire lecture, he would be none the wiser. Very 
little English, I believe. Anyway it’s over his head, 
and if it weren’t it wouldn’t interest him—if he 
listened. But they never listen.” 

“Hilda, suppose someone interfered with the 
meeting? It has been done, you know. We’d have 
missed a perfectly good afternoon’s bridge, and I 
need a new hat.” 

“I thought you read the papers, Olga. That ques¬ 
tion has been settled once for all. There have been 
meetings from one end of town to the other, only 
they’ve not been advertised, publicly, I mean. The 
mails are full of them. I get notices every few 
days. This one came a week ago. It’s all right.” 

“Might as well do that as anything. How soon 
do you let us smoke at your parties, Hilda?” asked 
Kahleen Van Dysart, pulling out a cigarette case 
and handing it to Diana. 

“Would Van want you to go, Kathie?” 

“Van doesn’t mind. If I thought ho would I 
wouldn’t tell him!” 

“Van, like all the others, must be trained,” 
drawled Hazel Trent through a cloud of smoke. 

3 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“We are in a later era, dear Faith, in which ‘every¬ 
thing that is, is right.’ Remember that.” 

“And after all, she might as well hear what’s to 
hear. Same with Di. Because she’s been wrapped 
in cotton-wool for, how many years, sweet infant, 
eighteen? Nineteen?-” 

“Eighteen last week,” laughed Diana, switching 
the golden head from an animated conversation 
with the neighbour on her right. 

“Well, eighteen years,—is no reason why she 
should continue wrapped. We can’t all live shut 
up in cages. The world moves along. Let’s move 
with it. Only, let’s learn everything learnable.” 

Hildegarde from her place at the head of the 
* table, looked at the clock. 

, “If vv^'i^re going, we’d better not loiter. Meet¬ 
ing’s at 'tfrree. We’ll have our coffee in the con¬ 
servatory. Michael’s in the library with a priest. 
Such queer people come to see Michael. This one 
is from China or India or some such place. Looks 
like a thirteenth century picture, brown habit, cord 
tied around his waist and all that. I don’t think 
he’d approve of our lecture.” 

“One instance of the mediaeval mind,” suggested 
Hazel as they started towards the conservatory. 
“They’d turn in their graves, some of them, if they 
could look in on our world today.” 

“They probably would. But they’ve been out of 
their graves long since.” 

“Don’t, Faith. You give me the shivers.” 

4 



WHY NOT? 


“It isn’t half as shivery as what you are going to 
listen to this afternoon,” Faith answered. “Their 
being in another world listening to us and seeing 
what we do, is perfectly natural and normal. The 
other, is unnatural and abnormal. 

Matsuo had disappeared to get the tray of coffee 
things. 

“You hear? Missus Trent, she go, Missus Van 
Dysart an’ all. Our Missus Crighton, she takes 
them. I go as soon as ladies have left. You get 
Sadie up out of the kitchen to wash dishes instead 
of me.” 

Seriously Hana looked at him above the tray on 
which she carefully placed the last frail cup. 

“Missus Desmond going?” 

“Like’s not. She didn’t say.” 

The young woman suppressed a groan as he left 
the pantry. She would not call Sadie, at least, not 
yet. When Matsuo returned she asked, “Well? 
Missus Desmond going?” 

“I tell you she didn’t say. What do we care if 
she go? Our Missus goes. That’s enough for us.” 

“But Master will be angry.” 

“What we care? G’bye.” 

“Wait, Matsuo.” She put a brown, appealing 
hand on his sleeve. 

“Our Christian, church say,— no ! 1 

“This free America say,—yes. I would be Ameri¬ 
can. Free lecture everywhere. Free news every¬ 
where. Free country. Do as you please. Learn 

5 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


everything in America. I will learn everything— 
learnable.” 

“That has been said before, my husband. But it 
do no good. Learn what is good in our free Amer¬ 
ica. There is much good. But this is not good. It 
is not for us.” 

“You know nothing of what is good for Matsuo. 
I go get cups. Then, I go to lecture.” 

Out in the conservatory, neither flowers, nor 
lights, nor heavy glass could shut away the ominous, 
unending sound of the storm. The risen wind 
moaned above the futile argument as if some lost 
prophetic soul sat weeping at its outcome. 

“But why shouldn’t Diana go? After all, she is 
engaged. The engagement’s announced, so every¬ 
body knows she’s free to do as she likes.” 

“Is anybody free to do that, Olga?” 

“Oh Faith, you Puritan! I tell you the child 
knows nothing of life. Absolutely nothing! She’s 
not like the rest of the girls of today. All her life 
she’s been shut away between the corner house on 
Park Avenue and 40th Street in winter, and Litch¬ 
field, Connecticut, in summer. A nun in a mon¬ 
astery couldn’t have been better incarcerated. 
Could she, Diana? Why not let her have a 
glimpse out into the world now? There isn’t any 
harm in it.” 

“Isn’t there?” 

“If there were, why should girls and boys be al¬ 
lowed at these meetings?” 

6 


WHY NOT? 


‘There’s every reason why they should not be at 
them. And it is not allowed.” 

“But they do go. And how can anyone tell they 
are boys and girls, when women of seventy look 
seventeen, and boys of twenty have the expression 
of octogenarians?” 

“Perhaps that’s your answer, Hazel. Boys who 
did not go about listening to this sort of thing, would 
not look like octogenarians.” 

“And perhaps if the women of seventy looked 
less like seventeen, they would have more influence 
on the girls of seventeen.” 

“Bosh! Learn all you can. Be as young as you 
can, all your life. Never say die. By the way, 
Hilda, what’s the opinion of the eminent and learned 
architect on the subject?” 

“Oh, Michael’s all right. Why should he bother? 
We are of today, Michael and I. I do as I please, 
Michael as he pleases. At present sticks and stones 
are uppermost, and churches. He’s about to archi¬ 
tect one for the padre in the library.” 

“Hilda!” Faith’s eyes were shining. “Why 
didn’t you tell us before? A church! What church? 
He’s made. And Michael not yet thirty. Why, 
he’s only a boy! Glorious!” 

“Mercy, Faith. One would think Michael in 
leading strings. He has graduated from altar can¬ 
dlesticks, you know, though 1 thought he never 
would.” 

As Hildegarde spoke, the eight years’ priority 

7 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


over her husband, skillfully disguised under modern 
methods of rejuvenation, caused a flush to rise to the 
tips of her jewelled ears. 

Then she added hastily, to cover her discomfi¬ 
ture, “Shall we go?” 

“Go? Of course. I thought it was decided.” 

“Come along then, the car’s waiting.” Hilde- 
garde, hatted through the luncheon, drew on a pair 
of long gloves. 

“Sorry, old dear. I can’t join you.” 

As she spoke, Faith’s frank eyes travelled from 
Kathleen van Dysart’s face to Diana’s, both guile¬ 
less, both pathetically young. Pity that one hour, 
two hours, might be enough to change the youthful 
charm of that look for the rest of both their lives. 
She thought of the humanless masks that looked out 
at her from the flotsam of Fifth Avenue’s streaming 
hordes. The shock of hideous disfigurement to 
youth’s fresh beauty under the painted, pallid paste, 
was always the same. They must not be of the 
masks, these two. Her own life was so replete 
with joy that where she loved, she longed to share. 
If they only knew! 

“Why not, Faith?” 

“Joan. The baby. Two good reasons,” she 
laughed. 

“Nonsense, old girl. The faithful Rhea would con¬ 
sider you an intruder. Come now. ’Fess the truth. 
It’s because you don’t approve. Expand, expand 
your life with the rest of the universe,” urged Olga. 

8 


WHY NOT? 


“Has delving into this sort of thing expanded any¬ 
one? I wonder. Somehow it seems to me to have 
lessened the power of the soul to expand. One is 
happier being ignorant of lots of things, you know.” 

“But, Faith,” Kathleen asked, “if I, the individ¬ 
ual I, want to know, why shouldn’t I?” 

“You said you wouldn’t tell Van, Kathie. If you 
can’t tell him, isn’t that enough?” 

Under lids that flickered, Hazel Trent looked at 
Faith and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. 

“Your very morals are mid-Victorian. You are 
born out of your epoch, an extinct species. Change 
your mind, be a sport.” 

Not waiting for Faith to disprove the Victorian 
fling, Kathleen turned. 

“Do you want to know what I think of Faith?” 
she asked. “She’s a better sport than any of us. 
It’s harder not to go than to go. I told Van to stop 
for me and I’d call him up to tell him where. But 
I’m hanged if I’d let him find me at Town Hall this 
afternoon.” 

“Why, Kathie dear, I thought you said Van 
wouldn’t care.” 

“I said it, but he would care. Any decent man 
would care. It took Faith’s courage to make me 
acknowledge it.” 

Meanwhile Matsuo had gathered up the empty 
cups inaudibly, not losing a word of what was said. 
He hesitated at the screen listening to hear what 
might follow Kathleen van Dysart’s speech. 

9 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“You’ve spoiled my party, Faith,” said Hilda, 
trying grimly to conceal her white fury. I thought 
it would be a lark as well as useful. We all go to 
see doubtful plays. This can’t do us any more harm, 
can it? Or a lurid movie? It’s all in the way you 
look at it. If we go simply for amusement it’s no 
better nor worse than going to a matinee. But I’ll 
tell you this, Faith. It’s got an advantage over the 
matinee. If you want to use what you learn, it might 
be a pretty good thing. There.” 

“I thought so,” Faith answered quietly, “but I 
would not have gone anyway. I’ll just get your man 
to call a taxi.” 

It was Winters who eventually called the taxi. 
Matsuo was in the room beyond the pantry reaching 
for his coat. 

“Here your cups. I go now. Back in time for 
tea things.” 

But Hana held him. 

“You go today, you come back in time for 
tea, changed. You not come back the same to 
Hana.” 

“It can do no harm, an’-” he quoted impres¬ 

sively, “it might be a pretty good thing.” 

Then Hana’s hand flew to her mouth. It was all 
she could do to keep from screaming aloud. 

“Not for us! Not for us!” as with pleading, swim¬ 
ming eyes she looked into his that were small, hard, 
defiant. Then she went on; 

“I don’t want to know such things. I don’t want 

io 



WHY NOT? 


my husband to know. I don’t want to go where they 
talk like that. We said—that time—you took me 
from Japan, when we make enough, we go home, get 
forgiven,—an’ live so happy. This Miss Arachne, 
she make trouble for Hana and Matsuo. She would 
ruin the home, an’ spoil the lives. She makes quar¬ 
rel those who never quarrel before, those who love. 
Don’t, Matsuo. Stay with Hana.” Again the hand 
to her mouth as the hard look she dreaded gathered 
in his face. He made no answer, got his hat, put it 
on, started down the stairs. Dumb with the pain in 
her heart she stood looking at him. Then, halfway 
he turned, came back, laughed and said, “I tell you 
all about it,” and was gone. 

Automatically she started to wash the dishes. The 
delicate, slim hands were unfitted for such work. 
She held them out and looked at them, then dumbly 
began again. She would not call Sadie. She could 
bear no one near her now but Matsuo, Matsuo who 
had dragged her into this—hideousness—who had 
so altered. Could he have been acting a part when 
he took her—that time—from the flowering arbors 
of Kobe? She lifted a plate in her hand, stopped 
a moment, set it down and tiptoed over to the pan¬ 
try door. Perhaps they had not gone. She might 
hear more about this thing that had come between 
her and Matsuo. She slipped out into the space be¬ 
tween the screen and door. 

“Don’t bother about the taxi. We’ll drop you 
on our way down.” 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“I’m not going in your direction, Hilda. Better 
tell Winters.” 

“Oh, very well. It’s early enough. We’ll wait 
till it comes.” 

As Hildegarde touched the bell, Hazel spoke up 
again: 

“Faith’s not only a Puritan, but priest-ridden. I 
suppose she would not dare tell her—what you call 
’em—her confessor, about this little spree of ours. 
So she won’t join it.” 

“Who’s mid-Victorian now, Hazel? You know 
better than to have said that. It shows igno¬ 
rance far more dense than what you call the dark 
ages.” 

“Well, suppose it does? You’ve evaded a direct 
question. You said Joan and Mickey, but you knew 
they were not the reason.” 

Even the calculating eyes before her, quailed a 
little at the limpidity of Faith’s. If one single thing 
characterized Joan’s mother, it was mental clarity. 
Perhaps Hana had divined this in holding her up as 
a pattern to herself as well as to Matsuo. 

“It’s not because I want to be a kill-joy at your 
party, Hilda, or disagreeable. Hazel has asked me 
a question straight out. There’s one I must ask 
each one of you. Would any of you go to a Fagan 
school for stealing? They do exist, you know, right 
here in town.” 

“Good Lord! Now she’s back in her slums!” ex¬ 
claimed Olga Clavering. 


12 


WHY NOT? 


“We’ve stood by you to the limit in those, you 
know. What have they got to do with it?” 

“Just that. It’s quite the same thing, but worse. 
A stolen purse can be replaced. Not a stolen soul. 
Do you want me to be clearer? There’s more to be 
said. A great deal more. And I’m keeping you 
from the lecture. 

“Shoot,” said Hazel, “the lecture doesn’t begin 
till three.” 

“It’s the key to every crime. Think it over.” 

It was Diana who stared now. Then she broke 
out; 

“Faith! You exaggerate. What on earth do you 
mean? Murder, and things like that? They don’t 
go with decent society.” 

“Don’t they? I’m not so sure. You’ve been 
sheltered, Di. Nobody told you that what we know 
as decent society is sometimes pretty rotten. My 
answer is the only answer. That’s why I don’t want 
you to go. If Larry doesn’t mind, after you and 
he are married, it’s none of my affair. It’s really 
none of it now. But—you’re a dear, and it hurts 
me to think what it might do to you. Why should 
you, conservative and quiet as you’ve always been— 
mix up in this sordid type of thing?” 

“You speak as if you knew just what might be 
said. Why shouldn’t we know, too?” 

“That’s just it. I don’t know and I don’t want 
to know. I don’t want to drag my eyes and ears and 
brain through the mire that’s to be flung about this 

13 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


afternoon. There are certain stains that won’t wash 
off, Di.” 

“How can you judge, if you don’t know?” asked 
Olga. 

“Do you ever look through your mail?” 

“Occasionally.” 

“Have you ever read the propaganda that filters 
through in spite of so-called censorship? The pa¬ 
per is usually yellow, like the doctrine.” 

“Oh, I’ve got a secretary who looks through my 
mail. No, I never noticed the things.” 

“Probably your secretary has a clean soul and 
won’t let them pass. The notices in themselves are 
a crime, a breaking of our laws. The mails are not 
supposed to carry that sort of literature, but it gets 
by. If you’ve read any part of it you know what to 
expect of Arachne’s lectures. I’ve been infuriated 
enough to report it, but decided to throw it in the 
waste basket instead.” 

Diana Travers gave no sign of the indecision that 
swayed her. She was young, weak, curious. Faith 
was right. Faith always was right, but the other 
women had a good time out of life, and were not 
troubled by any of the things that stood in Faith’s 
way. True, Olga was soon to become a widow-de¬ 
grace by reason of utter incompatibility, and as far 
as Diana knew, Hazel Trent had either disposed 
of her husband, or been disposed of by him, several 
years back. As to Trent, people laughed at the 
thought of his having been at all. Where had he 

14 


WHY NOT? 


gone? Nobody knew. Rather pitiful, that part. 
Kathleen van Dysart had only been married a few 
weeks, and Faith but five years. As to their hostess, 
everyone knew that for some incomprehensible rea¬ 
son Michael Crighton had fallen in love with her, 
though marriage more incongruous had never taken 
place. Michael, lovable, fanciful, talented, imagi¬ 
native, honest, generous; Hildegarde calculating, 
selfish, narrow, hard, and more or less the fashion 
by reason of these things, and Michael. She got 
what she wanted. Now Diana, guarded carefully, 
circumscribed, was marrying Lawrence Minton to 
gain her freedom. Behind Diana lay generations 
of conservative, wholesome ancestry, backbone of 
the elder American civilization. Ancestors, tradi¬ 
tion, apparently meant nothing to her. She was of 
today, demanding liberties. So she hung back, mind 
wandering curiously, especially from the path Faith 
would have chosen for her. 

“Not coming with me, Di? Joan asked me to 
bring you home.” 

“No. I’ve decided to go with Hildegarde.” 

“Not even for Joan?” 

“Not—today—anyway.” — 

Hana, behind the screen, had seen the red color 
that crept into Diana’s face when Mrs. Desmond 
spoke to her, and noticed too that the young girl 
avoided even a glance in the direction of the clear 
eyes. 

The dining room was empty in a few minutes and 

15 


THE. CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

Hana gone back to her task. When all had been 
arranged, she looked for her umbrella, to find it 
gone. Matsuo had taken it, of course. The rain 
still fell in torrents, but discomfort of body mattered 
very little. She put on her hat and coat, and slipped 
down the Avenue to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. She 
was glad of the merciful darkness in the Lady 
Chapel. There she could weep out her soul and no 
one be any the wiser. And tears would be her 
prayer. Our Lady would know, for she, too, had 
wept, in silence. Hana was sure of being heard, 
and she could rest here, before taking up her burden. 
God! What a burden! Perhaps she stayed an hour 
—it may have been longer. Nothing mattered ex¬ 
cept the blessed peace that somehow wrapped her 
round. At last in the darkness she felt for a taper 
and lighted a blue glass vigil lamp before the altar. 

“Oh, Lady Mary! For little Matsuo,” she whis¬ 
pered. 


i <5 


CHAPTER II 


“they all jumped out-” 

I N spite of the rain Michael had accompanied 
the Franciscan friar back to his monastery. 
It was a great thing for so young a man to have 
been given the building of a church as important as 
the one contemplated by the Order. No one under¬ 
stood this better than the architect himself. A 
small council of Friars Minor had gone over his 
plans, suggesting minor details here and there, but 
in the main, altering nothing. 

After seeing the father safely in at the door, 
Michael had gone out of his way to dream at the 
lot on which the church was to be built. Storm or 
no storm, it was all the same to him. To his 
imaginative mind his creation stood, complete. 
Vaulted galleries and colonettes, gracious arches 
and reach of nave, light ethereal filtering such color 
as was born and lives at Chartres, sunshine like a 
celestial arrow touching the traceried altar—the 

golden, precious Door- 

Lost to his surroundings, oblivious of the down¬ 
pour pelting against his coat and the umbrella he 
had closed at the monastery door and forgotten to 
open, ankle-deep in mud, he rambled about, vision- 

17 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


ing his dream consummated. He wondered if he 
might suggest the elimination of pews. They were 
so ugly and cluttered out proportions- 

When at length he reached his library it was long 
past tea-time. The fire was dying, the room deserted. 
He often wished he might find Hildegarde at home 
when he got in. Especially on a day like this. He 
didn’t like to think of her out in the storm. Of 
course she was never exposed to the elements. There 
was her motor, and other people’s motors. But she 
might catch cold. She wasn’t too strong. She had 
been a miracle of fragility as a girl. Besides, there 
was so much to tell. His first church. She used to 
make fun of the candlesticks that were his hobby. 
From childhood he had had a strange gift for adapt¬ 
ing, designing, creating candlesticks for the sacred 
places. And sanctuary lamps—he loved the sanctu¬ 
ary lamps. He always said it was because of the 
joyous flames that danced their prayer to Heaven. 
People spoke of the solemnity of funeral lights. 
Not at all. Why should they be solemn? Hadn’t 
a soul been released to Paradise? Hadn’t God 
caught it up in an ecstasy of joy to sing and laugh 
and play throughout the aisles of Eternity? What 
was there sad about that? Michael would like to 
‘know. 

It had been these very lights that had brought 
him to the notice of the Friars Minor. But it was 
his personality that had done the rest. Too much a 
dreamer to make a brilliant record at college, he 

18 



“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT 




had somehow managed to pull through between his 
castles in the air, and his castles on paper, fair gift 
for mathematics and genius for modelling. After 
leaving the Beaux Arts, he had done what he could 
under no less guide than Ralph Adams Cram. Now, 
as Faith said, he was made. 

That he would go on and up there was little doubt. 
His house he had built during the year of his en¬ 
gagement to Hildegarde von Engel. It was a large 
house, and, like his soul, filled with dreams. In 
every room, on every side, at the very turn of the 
staircase—dreams. Now, out of the cold and chill 
of the afternoon, the dream slept. Perhaps that 
was one reason that the house seemed so empty. 

After all Hilda, was young and loved life. How 
could he, confiding, honest, guess that she had the 
better of him by eight years? In its peculiar way 
her artistry was as exact as his skill. How should 
he know? She had never told him. It wasn’t dis¬ 
loyal of him to wish she might carry her fevered 
search for excitement into other channels. Since the 
great war the younger generation had been filling 
its time with things worth while. That she belonged 
to it he never doubted. New schools of music had 
taken on. Great artists from abroad were playing, 
or leading symphonies. Hildegarde had inherited 
a love of music, but lesser loves had drowned it. 
There were exhibitions at the galleries, books, clever 
new plays, interesting people, a thousand diversions 
other than the ones she sought. His own work, a 

19 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


study of it that would have brought them close to¬ 
gether. After all, it was his work, and he loved it. 
But she sought no common interest. What Michael 
liked held no allure for her, though had she but 
known, there was material in it to thrill to the fibre 
of her spirit. If she had a spirit, if she could thrill 
at all. 

Useless faddisms were a different matter. Liter¬ 
ally “blown about by every wind of doctrine” she 
would follow a new preacher from General Sher¬ 
man’s statue to Washington Square, provided his 
ministrations did not lead outside a certain custom¬ 
ary ken. Joseph Newton has characterized it as 
“Parlor Magi knocking at the door of dead pa¬ 
ganisms, and modern theosophies asking for new 
faiths.” So Hildegarde ran her gamut, out of 
which Billy Sunday alone was excluded by reason of 
his roughness. She had a year of Brahminism on 
the heels of a season of Buddhism, then a period 
of the Science that is neither Christian nor scien¬ 
tific. For a brief epoch she flared ancient truths 
camouflaged into a thing called “New Thought” 
for lack of better title, to her personal gallery, 
and joined classes in “Concentration and Pros¬ 
perity.” This era over, she wafted her pretty self 
through a few weeks of Communitarianism. Now 
her shallow brain had seized with avidity upon 
the Grant heresy. She could not understand 
that Truth could not be Truth if it lied. Nor did 
the heretic explain how our divine Master could 


20 


“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT 


possibly be what the fallacists call “a good man, but 
not divine, not God.” He Who is, had declared 
Himself God. If Hildegarde’s conscience needed 
opening to reckless pursuit of her own will, these 
delusive doctrines flung it wide indeed. 

Michael felt she would go any length out of curi¬ 
osity, for it had gradually seeped in upon him, 
that behind that classic brow lay scant mentality. 
Subconsciously he had known it from the start, but 
had refused to think. He loved her, and loving her, 
had to put all criticism out of his mind. He had 
been warned before they married, but to his youth¬ 
ful inexperience this fragile Hildegarde was his en¬ 
tire world. Given responsibility she would grow up. 
But would she? Could she without foundation? 
At seventy would she not be as irresponsible as to¬ 
day? Would not uncontrolled, uncontrollable innate 
selfishness exact its due? On this phase of her 
character Michael never touched. 

He took the tongs and lifted a dying log to the 
back of the fireplace, then pulled up his chair to 
watch the fresh one catch. When it did, it vied with 
the wax candles in their silver sconces and the silver 
on the table where the lamp had died out and the 
tea grown cold. 

Candle light was Michael’s fancy. Hildegarde 
would have preferred electricity. Somewhere chimes 
rang out a quarter before six o’clock. Michael 
touched a bell. 

“You rang, sir?” 


21 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Did I? Oh, yes, I believe I did. Are you usu¬ 
ally about at this time?” 

“No, sir. But today I am, sir.” 

“Where is Matsuo?” 

“He went out immediately after madam’s lunch¬ 
eon, sir. He has not come back. Shall I relight the 
kettle?” 

“Yes. Has Mrs. Crighton come in?” 

“I believe not, sir.” 

“Very well. Thac will do. Oh, Winters-” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“When Matsuo comes, send him to me.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Behind the man the door closed noiselessly. Hil- 
degarde might have gone somewhere for tea after 
a matinee. Again he found himself wishing she 
were not out on so inclement a night. He poured 
the boiling water into the cold tea after a while, and 
absently drank it. Then he sat musing on his work. 

A sudden tap at the door. He turned quickly 
thinking it might be his wife. But it was only the 
Japanese. 

“You send for me, sir?” 

“I needed you early this afternoon. The ship¬ 
ment of bulbs had arrived from Tokio. They were 
to be assorted as you know and repacked at once. 
Where were you?” 

A sullen expression came into the man’s face as 
he answered: 

“I had to go hear a lecture.” 

22 



“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT 


»> 


“A lecture? The bulbs were to be shipped to 
Richmond at once. I had fully explained this. It 
was important to catch the first train out.” 

Michael detected no impertinence in Matsuo’s 
tone as he answered; 

“The lecture was important, sir. I had to go.” 

“Where was this lecture?” 

“Town Hall, sir.” 

Then Michael seemed to remember. Vaguely 
it came to him at first. Then with all the vivid 
force of sickening recollection the truth broke. He 
took one incredulous look at the man before him. 
He recalled having passed Hana in the hall, and 
that she was crying. Wondering, he had looked 
back at her, but she’d fled to the fastnesses below. 
A chill, unquestionable conviction came upon him 
that this man must have been present at a certain 
lecture to be given at Town Hall. Hildegarde had 
hinted her intention of going, one morning over her 
heavy accumulation of mail. Madame Arachne. 
Revolting. The man waited. But Michael did not 
dare speak—yet. 

“You may go.” 

Something in his master’s tone caused Matsuo to 
stop and glance swiftly at him before leaving the 
room. Then the door closed. 

Michael, no longer able to sit still, began to pace 
the floor. Hildegarde. This Japanese servant. 
Monstrous! And probably the whole gamut of hu¬ 
mankind at their backs. “The butcher, the baker, 

23 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the candlestick maker-” The candlestick maker! 

Hildegarde! His wife! 

He could not believe her serious when she tenta¬ 
tively mentioned that the meeting was to take place. 
It was unbelievable to him she should even take time 
to read the notice that had slithered its ochered way 
through the post. Doctrine, an exotic horror not to 
be tolerated by a decent white man. Surely even 
Hilda’s curiosity could never carry her so far. He 
remembered how she had laughed a trilling gamut 
and said she thought he was up to date, but here 
was a new thing she would have to learn for herself. 
He had answered that it was no new thing but old 
as the ages and corrupt as sin. Then he’d dropped 
the subject in the hope she might forget it. Not 
she. He had discounted her love for sensationalism. 

“But why? Why don’t you want me to go?” 

“Drop it, Hilda. It’s not—fit. I don’t think I 
would like to have you even seen there.” 

“That’s a silly reason. If I am there, why not be 
seen there?” 

“Don’t be there.” 

“But if Arachne’s object is a good one? She 
wants to save the world from the diseased and crip¬ 
pled. Surely that would be a kindness to the poor 
creatures that come into the world handicapped?” 

“Who makes them?” 

“God, of course.” 

“Can’t you leave it to Him, then, sweetheart? Did 
you ever hear that He said, ‘Not a sparrow falleth?’ 

24 



“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT 


Oh, my dear, my dear, if you only stopped to think 
how much beauty there is in the tiniest of God’s cre¬ 
ations, whether we see it to be perfect or imperfect, 
there need never be the sort of thing this radical is 
trying to do.” 

“Oh, very well.” 

She had wisdom enough to let the subject drop. 
Now it was evident to Michael she had intended to 
go whatever he said. But it never entered his head 
that she would manoeuvre in such a way as to have 
her going appear a spontaneous lark conceived by 
the women at her luncheon. Olga Clavering or 
Hazel Trent would have been capable of it. Hilde- 
garde knew that if she could have gotten Faith to 
sponsor such a move, Michael would have little to 
say. And that Faith would not, was what had irri¬ 
tated her to the point of rudeness. She often won¬ 
dered wherein lay Faith’s power with Michael. 
Pretty, yes. No more pretty than Hilda, though. 
Not sufficient beauty there to stir the depths in a man 
of his calibre. What then? She could not realize 
the vapidity of her own judgment, nor that externals 
meant nothing to her husband. Faith had always 
seemed to Michael like the pool of Bethsaida, re¬ 
freshing, cooling, healing. There was utter tran¬ 
quillity in the depths of her clear eyes, peace in the 
touch of her hand, surety in her judgment. He was 
not the only man who looked to Faith as an endur¬ 
ing standard where all else might fail. That her 
spirit was as regal as the crown of heavy braids 

25 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


that bound her patrician head, was the impression 
gained of her by almost every man who crossed her 
path. To no one was it more evident than to her 
own husband. 

She had never known the time when she’d not 
loved Jack Desmond. Love had come to her in 
childhood and grown with her youth. Then came 
a day when he was ordered to the Adirondacks, 
banished for an indefinite period. She was told to 
wait. Not Faith. She loved him. After their quiet 
wedding they went into wooded exile together. Jack 
had pleaded with her against his own burning love 
not to come. But what was self-will in Hildegarde 
Crighton, in Faith was determination to do the right 
thing. If she loved Jack, Jack loved her, too. If he 
were to be cured, she would help with the cure. If 
he were to be ill and die, he would need her more 
than ever to help him through. The hands he loved 
must be the hands to hold his to the last. So argued 
Faith. 

And back in New York everyone had talked about 
it, for everyone knew Jack and grieved at the ill¬ 
ness that had come upon him. And because of what 
his wife had done, not a man of all Jack’s friends 
but would have staked bis soul on her. 

Today Hilda had tried to use her, and failed. Not 
only she would not consent to go, but she had taken 
Kathleen with her and had tried to take Diana. 
That Diana had not gone was due to her own artful 
management. But she felt in her soul that if harm 

2 6 


“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT_” 

came of it, Michael would blame her. Nor would 
it make matters better that Olga and Hazel had 
backed her up. Michael was absurd to care what 
happened to the lives of outsiders. But he’d always 
had a sort of “brother’s keeper” idea. And it had 
grown with the years. “Not only the institution, 
but the individual boy or girl,” had been his cry. 
The simple goodness of his own heart reached to 
humanity through the doctrine of love of man 
through love of God. It was beyond Hilda, but 
there it was just the same. That a principle in this 
case was involved, made no matter. Nor did she 
reflect that her present action like a rock flung to a 
sleeping pool would never cease its circling till the 
widening rings touched the shores of Eternity. She 
simply could not see. 

Faith understood, Kathleen had an inkling. 
Diana’s curiosity was of the quality of Hildegarde’s. 
More character, weaker will, more sense of right 
and wrong. Led far afield she might become a 
menace to others as well as to herself. Guided, di¬ 
rected, her light would shine. Unready, young, un¬ 
formed, she was about to be married to a man she 
hardly knew. With Diana, the first step in the long 
run would count for evil or good. Today she had 
taken that step, her hand in Hildegarde’s. 

Outside the storm still battered its vengeful way. 
It seemed a sentient thing, knowing. The sleet 
crashed wildly against closed windows. 

Caught by the wind, the front door slammed close 

27 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

against the self-contained Winter’s apologetic 
jump. 

“Has Mr. Crighton come in?” 

“Yes, madam. He is in the library.” 

Hilda thought it wiser to hurry to her room and 
change before the inevitable encounter. Within a 
few minutes a softly-glowing feminine creature 
floated through the library door on waves of trail¬ 
ing orchid chiffon. Green eyes looked out at 
Michael under burnished titian hair. 

“My poor Michael lad! Have you waited for 
your tea? No? I’m glad you didn’t. I’ve had 
mine at the Ritz. Thought you’d be puttering about 
with the priest, so it wouldn’t matter if I were late. 
Then I drove some of the girls home. Ugh!” she 
shivered, “it’s a dreadful night to be out. Let me 
sit close to you, by the fire.” 

She perched on the arm of his chair trailing her 
chiffons about her. 

“Too lazy to talk, Michael? Tell me, what luck 
today?” 

But his earlier enthusiasm had died down with the 
flames. He hardly dared approach the subject he 
must approach, afraid of what she might say, might 
deny. The issue could not be evaded. But let it 
go a little while. Later would do. Not now. Not 
yet. 

“We started to work at once on plans for the 
church.” 

“What’s it to be called?” 

28 


“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT 


»> 


“Saint Edwards.” 

“Good chance, isn’t it?” 

“A great chance. I would have stayed later at 
the office but there was a shipment of Japanese bulbs 
to rearrange and express to Richmond. I’d prom¬ 
ised Major Lee not to delay his garden-making. 
Matsuo was to have had them ready for me to 
label and address. But he failed me, and it’s Satur¬ 
day. The garden will be delayed two days.” 

As yet he made no comment on the whereabouts 
of the Japanese. He merely stated a regrettable 
fact. That his wife’s eyelids flickered a trifle he 
could not see, for his were fixed on the embers. 

She had seen Matsuo. At the back of the room. 
That other men were there, others whose presence 
mattered more, she had not cared. After all, she 
did not know them. But this was a servant out of 
her own house. She had known about the bulbs. 
Thought of them and Michael’s eagerness to get 
them off had flashed to her at sight of the man’s 
face. She had had the grace to be a little fright¬ 
ened. 

“So he d-didn’t show up?” 

“No.” 

“After all, it’s only two days. Winters could 
have packed them, couldn’t he?” 

“No. Unfortunately, Winters haying been edu¬ 
cated solely for the purpose of serving as a footman 
in England, by chance war-scrapped to America, is 
not up on Japanese bulbs, their handling or ship- 

29 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


ment. Matsuo is a gardener by profession. Chance 
made him our butler.” 

“Why, Michael, I’ve never seen you like this be¬ 
fore. You must be all tired out.” She brushed her 
lips across his forehead and to save his soul he 
could not keep from shuddering. 

“I don’t know that I’ve ever been like this be¬ 
fore.” 

He got up and went to the other side of the man- 
tlepiece, where he stood outside the lure of the fra¬ 
grance and chiffons. 

“I am sorry. Winters could have waited on us. 
I hope my party had nothing to do with it.” 

She felt herself saying the wrong thing, knew she 
was leading to rocks better avoided, but the current 
of overwrought nerves got the better of her. 

“No. The luncheon had nothing to do with it. 
He tells me he went to a lecture.” 

“A lecture! My word!” Her laugh was high- 
pitched now, and she pulled her draperies closer. 

“The lecture was at Town Hall.” 

“Extraordinary!” 

“Not so extraordinary. It’s open to all classes 
and conditions, the butcher, the baker, even the 
household of the candlestick maker, Hildegarde.” 

“Why do you look at me like that?” 

“I can’t help—wondering.” 

“Michael! How dare you?” 

Furious, white flame seemed to sear her face and 
wither the carmine of her lips. 

30 


“THEY ALL JUMPED OUT 


>> 


Michael’s anger was of a different sort. Out¬ 
raged that she had so flagrantly disregarded his 
wishes, he could yet speak with a certain calmness, 
ignoring the question she had flung at him. 

“Who came to your party?” 

“Hazel Trent, Olga Clavering, Diana Travers, 
Kathleen van Dysart, and Faith Desmond.” 

A hardly perceptible smile flickered on her lips 
as she said the last name. She had surprised him 
there. 

“Did Faith go with you afterwards?” 

“She would have come but she had an engage¬ 
ment. So did Kathie, with Bob. Faith said she 
didn’t know we expected to go to a matinee after¬ 
wards or any other thing, so she let her nurse go 
out. She would have come. The others all did, all 
but Kathleen.” 

It was not the first time Michael had found the 
truth hidden under a half truth where Hildegarde 
was concerned. Against his will he had learned the 
cost of her half-truths, and that they were more 
dangerous than an outright lie. Inevitably they 
had contained for her an element of escape from 
consequence as well as responsibility. 

“Anyone else at the lecture you knew?” 

“Oh, yes. Ever and ever so many. None of 
your acquaintance, Michael, so that bit doesn’t 
really matter.” 

“I suppose the thing in itself, countenancing the 
thing, means nothing to you?” 

3 1 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Nothing at all. And you shan’t speak to me in 
such a tone.” 

“No? I’m sorry. I’m afraid it may be the first 
result of Arachne’s influence.” 

“Then you’ll jolly well see it won’t be the last.” 

She flung out of the room, regardless now of chif¬ 
fons or effect. The frenzy of rage and over-excite¬ 
ment reduced her to what she really was, an angry 
woman, not over-young. And this time Michael 
saw it. And the seeing was not pleasant. The fire 
with dying effort leaped high, shadows lengthened, 
candles flared, lighting up the bigness of the vaulted 
room, lighting up the void in Michael’s heart, light¬ 
ing up the emptiness and silence of all his house. 


32 


CHAPTER III 


HANA 

F ROM the servant’s stairway she had seen him 
come in, had listened to the master’s message 
transmitted by Winters, had heard the snarl with 
which Matsuo accepted it. That he could have pre¬ 
sented himself in the library feeling as he did, sent 
her heart cold. If he had only explained to her 
about the bulbs she might have done his work, but 
he jealously guarded his knowledge. All that she 
knew about bulbs had been the glowing flowers in 
her father’s gardens. Matsuo had taken her from 
these gardens, somehow another Matsuo. 

Still she watched him when he came out from the 
library, listened to the intake of his breath, caught 
a glimpse of his face and angry eyes. She waited. 

It had been his custom always to come first and 
speak to her if he had been out alone. After all, 
though his wooing had been a strange one, still he 
had wooed her, and they had been married less than 
a year. He did not come. An hour passed and he 
did not come. He was angry with her because she 
had tried to prevent his going where he did, of 
course that must be it. Soon it would be time to 
help him in the pantry. She wished she might see 

33 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


him before that. It would make everything easier. 
It made such an uncomfortable feeling in her breast 
if all were not well with them while they worked to¬ 
gether, as if she were suffocated and could not go 
on. No matter what had happened at luncheon¬ 
time and after, she, Hana, “Flower,” would smile 
at him, not think of the hurt,, try to make him for¬ 
get the bitterness. 

Down in the servant’s hall a bell tinkled. She 
knew the sound. It was from madam’s room. 
Probably Madam was waiting to be dressed. 

After a while, Lizette, madam’s maid, came to 
the top of the stairs and whispered down; 

“ ’Ana will you please tell your ’usban’ madame 
will dine in her appartement. Get me ready the 
tray.” 

“Very well. I go find him.” 

In pattering sandals she slipped out and along 
the hall to the small room adjoining the conserva¬ 
tory where bulbs and packages of seed were kept. 
She had often likened the bulbs to cocoons that 
would one day lift radiant wings in the gardens of 
this strange country. 

Matsuo had evidently finished his task and was 
preparing to carry the hateful boxes back to the 
library. What had changed him? Up to today the 
bulbs had seemed a link with Japan. He did love 
Japan. And now? Realizing how eagerly the mas¬ 
ter had waited to label and address them, and get 
them unharmed to their destiny, Matsuo loitered. 

34 


HANA 


Hatred had been born into his heart this night. 
Every nerve on edge, himself at highest tension, he 
started and almost dropped the box at Hana’s timid 
touch upon his arm. She had done the wrong thing, 
but smiled bravely and even cheerfully up at him. 

“Missus must have a headache. She dine in her 
rooms. You fix the tray. Lizette takes it. I wait.” 

“I have work to do. I first do the work. I take 
these boxes in an’ wait for them if I wait all night. 
Then I, Matsuo, messenger boy, must take them to 
express. Fix the tray yourself.” 

Hana dropped back, staring. Never before had 
he spoken like that. Never before. And he had 
not looked at her, not once. He, her husband. In 
spite of his attitude her soul yearned to him. Un¬ 
less he were suffering he could not speak so to any¬ 
one, much less to her, his Hana. 

In this way her gentle nature made excuses for 
him. 

“I thought, perhaps, Matsuo, when you came 
home, you would come to Hana.” 

“Why should I come to Hana?” 

“As you have always done, Matsuo mine.” Then 
shyly: 

“Tell me. Did you go to the Town Hall?” 

“You think I lie, that I say I go and did not go?” 
he flared. 

“But no. No lie. I thought you; might tell 
Hana.” 

“Well, I did go. What about it?” 

35 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


The soft eyes drooped and the docile young lips 
quivered. 

“I wanted you not to go, my Matsuo. But you did 
go, and it would make Hana happy to know she was 
wrong. If good did come to you, if what you did 
hear was beautiful, Hana was wrong. It may be 
perhaps she thought wrong things an’ Missus 
Arachne did not mean to teach what Hana thought.” 

The man’s eyes closed to slanting slits as he 
turned on her. “She taught what Hana thought 
and taught it right. How you know what your 
father was, an’ your gran’father, an’ his father? 
An’ your mother’s people. How you know?” 

Her hand flew to her lips. He could barely catch 
the whisper; 

“Our ancestors, Matsuo! But how? What?-” 

Her eyes flared in turn. “What devil is this 
Missus Arachne that she make you speak to Hana 
so, of her father an’ her mother, an’ her ances¬ 
tors?” 

The flint had caught. The man laughed. Then 
as he came close his lips contracted. She thought 
at one moment he was going to strike, and shrunk 
back, folding the little kimono tightly over the treas¬ 
ure resting in secret against her heart. 

“I tell you this. Till we know just what they 
were, how they live, their hist’ry, all that went be¬ 
fore, we stay as we are, each alone. Now you un- 
derstan’.” 

Again the trembling hand to her lips, again a step 

3 ^ 



HANA 


backwards and a folding closer of the violet folds 
above the brighter obi. 

“We hear about people in this house. Missus 
Desmon’ knew Mista Desmon’ sick man when she 
married with him. But it makes no difference to 
Missus Desmon’. She marry him, anyway. Chil¬ 
dren strong an’ well.” 

Again the grating laugh. 

“Uh! They whisper the baby not well at all. I 
know. We do as I say. We live as we are. These 
people nothing to us.” 

“All our dreams—home—Japan—our own little 
garden—an’ our own little children—jus’ dreams— 
Matsuo ?” 

Her face had grown pallid, though he did not see 
because he would not look. 

“If you like, yes. Dreams are dead things. Not 
real.” 

“Our Christian faith means nothing? The great 
commandment says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ” 

“Missus Arachne great American. She teach 
American doctrine everywhere. She knows it all.” 

Sickening sense of a soul in the losing swept over 
Hana as she watched him. If the religion that meant 
so much to her meant nothing to Matsuo, there was 
one more appeal; 

“Our code, Japanese code, does forbid the thing 
she preaches.” 

“Interferes with private right. A code of igno¬ 
rance. You b’lieve what I say or-” 

37 





THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Frightened Hana thought to see murder in his 
face when with a smothered exclamation he rushed 
out. She saw that he carried both boxes, one on 
top of the other. Had he carried but one he would 
have returned to the conservatory. Evidently he 
dreaded a renewal of the argument. But he need 
not have been afraid. She had dropped like a leaf 
to the floor. 

As he passed through the dining room on his 
way to the library he noticed that Winters had set 
the table foi - two. He was filling the glasses when 
Matsuo threw him a surly order: 

“Tray for Missus Crighton upstairs. Lizette 
takes it. You fix it.” 

There was an oppressive silence in the library. 
Even Matsuo’s entrance was a relief. He set the 
first box on the floor and Michael pointed to a place 
for the second. Turning, he started to leave the 
room when Michael stopped him. 

“Winters will attend to the getting off of these 
tonight . 1 He can do it as soon as the boxes are ad¬ 
dressed. I want a word with you.” 

Fury raged in the servant’s breast, anger with 
himself that he had admitted the demon of violence, 
anger with Hana because of her meekness and moral 
strength, above all, vehement, voiceless rage against 
the woman who had dared speak as Arachne had 
spoken at Town Hall this afternoon. She had set 
his soul on edge with life as he had conceived 
it, and overthrown natural acceptance of human 

38 


HANA 


existence as it had been intended from the begin¬ 
ning. 

Had he but known, ancient atavism held him 
where one had stood before, looking on the fruit of 
the knowledge of evil, and the fruit was bitter. 

And he was enraged at his master’s wife, this idle 
woman who had first incited his curiosity by her 
careless conversation in his presence. Plainly she 
had regarded him as a piece of household furniture 
with no intelligence to understand. But so regard¬ 
ing him she had put in his mind the key to possible 
escape from the consequences of his hasty marriage. 
Fairness to Hana never entered his head. He had 
eaten of the forbidden fruit and the demon had 
entered into his soul. 

What right had she to hold her head so high, this 
woman with the burnished hair? But Hilda’s head 
might have drooped ever so little, had she realized 
that the very butler in her house looked upon her as 
an instrument to his own undoing. 

“Have you certain stated days for going out?” 

The master was speaking. He must answer. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Was today one of them?” 

“No.” 

“Have you an excuse?” 

“I wish to live as Americans live, independent. I 
will learn all America can teach. Americans are 
free. If I live in America I should be free to do as 
Americans do.” 


39 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Others have made the same mistake,” observed 
Michael dryly. “Our best servants are as indepen¬ 
dent of spirit as their masters, but like their masters 
they observe the fitness of things and suit their free 
time to their work. It is as essential that I keep my 
word, as that you do your duty. I had hoped to get 
this special work done easily, on time, and with no 
inconvenience to anyone. Because we have missed 
the earlier train I must send another man out in the 
storm to prevent a further delay of two days.” 

“I take them.” 

“I cannot trust you.” 

Matsuo had not yet discovered that his master 
was of finer fibre than he could realize. Nor had he 
known Michael’s entire viewpoint concerning life and 
living, to be diametrically opposed to that of Mrs. 
Crighton, therefore the horror in the voice that 
spoke could not reach him—nor the sense of disgust 
that she and this man held knowledge learned in 
common, at the same time, from the same source, of 
the most revolting evil of life. 

“As to the cause of your failure to carry out my 
wishes I will not speak.” 

No answer. Nor did Michael expect one. He 
had fallen into a train of thought that beset him 
against his will. Could he, in conscience, keep this 
man in his house? Could he allow him to serve 
him, to serve Hildegarde? Hana came to his mind, 
the gentle creature he had passed in the hall. She 
was little more than a< child, and she had been cry- 

40 


HANA 


ing. If the man left she would have to go. Where? 
Then he realized the Japanese was speaking. 

“What was it? What did you say?” 

“I said, if you think best, I go. You do not 
trust.” 

“No. Not any more.” 

“Mr. Crighton would be surprised if he knew how 
Matsuo is trusted.” , 

“That may be. What of your wife? What will 
she do if I let you go?” 

“Hana can go where she like. She will do as she 
please,” said the man, furious at answering as he 
did, driven against his volition to say a thing that in 
his subsconsciousness he did not feel. Arachne had 
succeeded in poisoning his tongue if not his heart. 

“Very well, then. You may wait on the table to¬ 
night, y but tomorrow you will go. Send Winters to 
me. 

The night passed, somehow. Michael forgot to 
go to bed. When the fire died down he absently 
raked the embers together and put on a fresh log. 
He even went ahead with his plans for Saint Ed¬ 
ward’s, and found himself in the old way designing 
candlesticks for the altar and playing around his 
thought of them. Then, like a drum-beat, “The 

butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker-” No, 

not that. Anything but that. 

Faith had not gone with the rest. How could 
Faith go? She was of too fine a fibre to allow such 
things to disturb her tranquil, valiant soul. They 

4i 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


were plotting murder, those others. She had taken 
Kathleen van Dysart with her, little Kathleen, mar¬ 
ried to Bob, one of the best in the world. Hard on 
Bob if Kathleen were to drag about town like the 
rest. Why couldn’t Hildegarde have been as fine as 
they? But he shook this thought away. Hilda was 
as she was, without stability, without stamina. But 
she was his wife, and he loved her. God knew why. 
They had told him she had a headache, so absently, 
he went up to her room and knocked, knocked to no 
purpose. He waited and after a while Lizette came 
to tell him her mistress was sleeping quietly and 
perhaps Monsieur had better not disturb her. Was 
she sleeping? At any rate back he went to the li¬ 
brary. Towards one o’clock he thought he heard a 
slight stirring in the hall, followed by the sound of 
a door closing softly. To make sure, he went out 
to see. Everything was quiet, deadly quiet. 

At dawn he concluded it must be bed-time, so he 
brushed the ashes on the hearth apart and went up 
to his room where he fell into a deep sleep. About 
ten he came down to his coffee. It was rather a sur¬ 
prise to find Matsuo waiting at the table, a curiously 
transformed Matsuo, ashy, wan. The arrogant 
assurance of last night had disappeared. 

“Please, sir, Hana has gone.” 

Michael looked at him inquiringly. 

“Yes? I supposed she would. But isn’t it a little 
early? Did she get her check?” 

“Mista Crighton,” the man’s voice shook, not 

42 


HANA 


with fury now, but with anxiety, “she did not sleep 
here, last night. I think—I feel—she has gone toj 
stay.” 

“You mean something has happened to her? She 
could not have left the house in the storm. Perhaps 
for some reason best known to herself she may have 
slept in the housekeeper’s quarters. Have you asked 
there ?” 

“Hana has gone.” 

“Is there any reason why?” 

“Not why she should go away. Las’ night I was 
angry. I left her in the little room behin’ the con¬ 
servatory. I told her fix the tray for Missus (Brigh¬ 
ton. But she—she—cried, so I told Winters to fix 
it. She never came where I was, after.” 

“Did you look to see if she could have fallen 
asleep in the little room?” 

“I looked. I looked everywhere. No Hana. 
Hana has gone.” 

“Did she take her things?” 

“No, sir. Nothing. I am afraid for Hana. She 
is young. The storm was strong. Las’ night very 
bad. Got me nervous. I spoke terribly cross to 
Hana. She not used to that. I never before was 
cross with her. She is but sixteen years. What will 
I do? Oh, what will Matsuo do?” 

“If you were angry and spoke crossly she may 
have gone away to frighten you.” 

“She had no place to go. My Hana would not 
do that. She will not come back. I must find her. 

43 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


We have no frien’s here. Sir, Mista Crighton, if I 
go she could not find me, ever. I would not know 
where to stay. This house the only place she knows. 

If she should be foun’-,” his voice rose almost to 

hysteria, “I beg you—let me stay.” 

In spite of all that had happened, in spite of Mi¬ 
chael’s outraged sense of decency, the man’s evident 
sincerity, his agony, appealed to the kindliness in 
his master’s heart. 

“You may stay, then. Keep away from the sort 
of thing that got you into trouble last night. These 
things are not for you, nor for any self-respecting 
person, man or woman.” 

“Sir, some day Matsuo explains—everything. 
There is excuse, but not for how Matsuo did act. 
There is no excuse for that. Now—may we call 
the police to look for Hana?” 

“Come to the library. I will call them from 
there.” 

The man trembled violently as he followed 
Miehael into the library. With difficulty he lifted 
the receiver from its stand and handed it to him. 
Then Winters came to the door. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to Michael who 
stood waiting with the receiver at his ear, utterly ob¬ 
livious of the voice that iterated and re-iterated 
“Number, please.” 

“When I went to shake out the rug at the front 
door, I found this just inside where it must have 
been dropped.” 


44 



HANA 


Winters handed Michael what he had found. It 
was a baby’s shoe, and finely stitched inside, a name 
was worked, “Matsuoito.” 


CHAPTER IV 


DIANA QUESTIONS 

S PRING, and Diana’s wedding eve. 

Faith had been out of town the greater 
part of the time since the day of Hildegarde’s lunch¬ 
eon and had not seen her. But Diana had seized 
upon her new-found liberty with a defiance belong¬ 
ing to the time. Romance she laughed at, it was 
a Mother Goose myth, though whatever it was, the 
mothers had known it. What had they gotten out 
of it? More than poor Diana could ever conceive, 
unless by merciful Providence she might some day 
find herself so transformed as> to appreciate its use¬ 
fulness if not its special charm. 

Now she wanted excitement, to know. Life is a 
game. Let’s play it. Fair and square, but play it. 
Out of the face that laughed indifference to the more 
serious side of the sport, looked Puritan eyes deep 
and blue. At times they were perplexed, at other 
times sore puzzled, smiling when her lips laughed, 
but never laughing with them. Until that day they 
had been innocent eyes, and the expression of the 
mouth had been the expression of a child’s mouth. 
That, too, had changed. Her face held neither 
the chill calculation of Hildegarde’s, the insolence 

46 


DIANA QUESTIONS 

of Olga’s, nor the devil-may-care challenge of 
Hazel Trent’s, but something sweet had gone out 
of it. 

All these things Faith Desmond read when Diana 
walked unannounced into her boudoir the afternoon 
before her wedding. 

“Di! This is surprising—and enchanting-” 

“A dozen people are waiting for me. I smashed 
every engagement when I heard you were back. I 
had to see you.” 

She dropped into a chair beside Faith’s writing 
table. Early yellow primroses were blooming there 
in an opalescent vase. Diana bent above them for 
a moment. 

“Um-m. Lovely. A tear bottle? Not appro¬ 
priate for spring flowers. Where on earth did 
you get it? Genuine, too, peeling off. Hot, isn’t 
it?” 

She slipped out of the grey cape that covered 
her dress. There was a bunch of orchids at her 
breast. 

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” 

But Faith had seen the color that crept up to 
Diana’s face and knew it was not the cool spring 
day that put it there. 

The young girl glanced nervously about. Faith’s 
room did suit her, she thought. Her own must be 
quite different, more modern, with painted furni¬ 
ture and coloured glass. Here were gay English 
chintzes bright with tropical birds and a blue run- 

47 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


ning through the flowered motif that blended with 
the tinting of the walls. An old clock, silver candle¬ 
sticks, mellowed portraits in oval frames, mahogany 
polished by time into the soft patine that only years 
and care can give, the room was somehow a well- 
bred masterpiece. Then Diana’s eyes fell on a pho¬ 
tograph that stood facing her. 

“That’s a good picture of Joan.” 

“Do you like it?” 

“Yes. She’s another you.” 

“Jack thinks so. But she’s the creator of her own 
inheritance,” Faith laughed. 

“How?” 

“A baby tank. Steel and fire. She forces her 
way ahead and gets what she wants with a trust 
that’s sublime.” 

“Some will. But you have that, too. So has 
Jack. She’s an original little soul. I hope she’ll 
come in while you are here. 

“Curiously enough, with all the child’s force of 
will she is as tender as a sensitive plant. She will 
need a cross, poor lamb, to make it all even some 
day.” 

“I’ve never seen your boy, Faith.” 

“Mickey.” 

“For Michael Crighton?” 

“Yes.” 

“He’s rather worth naming a boy for.” 

“Yes. You knew Mickey came to us, lame, didn’t 
you, Di?” 


48 


DIANA QUESTIONS 


“I did know.” Indeed, Hildegarde had told her, 
illustrating. It had not been a kind telling. She 
had dwelt at length on what Jack had been when 
Faith married him. 

“There’s a surgeon in Saint Louis, a man with an 
international reputation, war and all that; Doctor 
Bland, Victor Bland. He’s coming.” 

“Like Lorenz?” 

“No, the knife. Marvellously skillful with his 
hands, too. But you did not come for all this. Tell 
me about yourself.” 

She was entirely aware that the girl had not 
thrown over last-moment engagements for the mere 
pleasure of hearing about her children. 

“Perhaps I can help in some way. Tell me, dear, 
if you think I can.” 

Diana patted Faith’s hand where it lay. 

“Understanding person.” She stopped an instant 
to collect herself, then- 

“You remember that day at Hilda’s.” 

There was no need to ask. She stated a staring 
fact that not one of them would ever be able to 
forget. 

“Of course.” 

“You knew I went—with them—after you and 
Kathie left us ?” 

“I supposed you had. I’ve been away, you see, 
and know nothing about it.” 

“Something happened that night as a result of 
it I believe, though no one has suggested it. A 

49 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


tragic something happened. I thought perhaps since 
you were so opposed to my going, you might explain 
what you meant by opposing us.” 

“I don’t know at all what you mean, dear.” 

“Did anyone tell you that that Jap, Hilda’s but¬ 
ler, was there?” 

“At the lecture?” 

Diana nodded. 

“No. It’s rather horrible. Hildegarde would 
not have told me that.” 

“Of course she was miffed about it, and all. I 
tell you, I was shocked. If we could have gone, 
just ourselves, or just women, it wouldn’t have 
seemed so appalling. But it was open to anyone. 
All kinds of people. You felt as if you had some 
hideous secret in common with them.” 

“I know. That was one of my reasons for not 
going, though I had other stronger reasons. Was 
that your tragedy?” 

“No. It seems that man’s wife was a maid in 
the house. She didn’t want him to go. And when 
he came back she had disappeared. They never 
found her afterwards.” 

“Poor soul, poor little soul.” 

“Yes. I’ve never come close to real sorrow be¬ 
fore, tragedy like this. I think of it every time I 
pass Hilda’s house, and I’ve wondered about some¬ 
thing you said that day.” 

“Have you been there since?” 

“Oh, dear, yes, often.” 

50 


DIANA QUESTIONS 

“It must be hard for you if you feel that way 
about it.” 

“I try to forget it. But at Arachne’s it comes 
before me, like a ghost.” 

“Why did you go back after the first experience? 
I should think that would have been enough.” 

“Oh, that part was all right after the first time. 
One must grow used to things and not do them 
halfway even if they shock at first. That doesn’t 
worry me any more. Besides, the others bear me 
up. Hilda, Olga and Hazel have been with me to 
every lecture since. The thing that haunts me is 
that, after the woman disappeared, they found a 
baby’s shoe at the front door. She must have 
dropped it in her flight. Why did she run away?” 

“The man was at that lecture. Well? It could 
only mean one thing. She was a fraid.” 

“I suppose that was it. Where can she have 
gone ?” 

“Who knows? It is one of the consequences of 
that ghastly day.” 

There was silence for an instant in the pretty 
room. Then Diana braced herself for the question 
she wanted to ask. 

“There was something you said I did not under¬ 
stand, quite. You spoke of a Fagin school. You 
said it was worse than that.” 

With an inward prayer for help, Faith answered. 
Now it was clear why the girl had come. She had 
heard one side of the argument, craftily, insidiously 

5i 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

put. Eternal questioning! She wanted to know the 
other. 

“It is stealing, just as murder is stealing.” 

“Stealing what? Murder is taking human life.” 

“You have answered yourself, dear. That’s 
it. Taking what does not belong to you, but to 
God.” 

“But if there is no life?” 

“No? How much do you believe of your re¬ 
ligion?” 

“What’s that got to do with it?” 

“Everything. That is, of course, if your religion 
means anything to you, if you are sincere in it.” 

“I am sincere in it.” 

“Not Hilda’s kind?” 

“Hilda’s a religious will-o’-the-wisp, and the other 
two old dears are pagans. That’s why they are 
what they are. No. I really mean it. In earnest, 
Faith.” 

Then Faith smiled at her and asked her the first 
question in the little catechism even Joan knew by 
heart: 

“Who made you?” 

“God.” 

“Why did God make you?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know. To live along, I sup¬ 
pose, like anyone else.” 

“And then?” 

“I suppose like every one else I’ll die.” 

“And then?” 


52 


DIANA QUESTIONS 


“My word, Faith! What are you driving at? 
Whoever knows, what then?” 

“The answer is in the simplest book in the world, 
the true answer to all this: ‘God made me to know 
Him, love Him, serve Him in this world, and to 
be happy with Him forever in the next.’ Forever, 
Di.” 

“Yes? Sounds nebulous. What about it?” 

“Want me to explain?” 

“Fire away.” 

Here was reflection of Olga Clavering, in mental 
as well as verbal process, thought Faith, and a clear 
case for counteraction. 

“God made me, not man. God willed me into 
the world. Man did not interfere because man had 
not the right. Do you see that much?” 

“I see what you mean.” 

“He made me to know Him. That means the 
joy of knowing Him now. No one who does not 
know Him—a little even—can be entirely happy. 
Man has not the right to deprive another of that 
happiness. If you can once bring yourself to under¬ 
stand that knowledge of God is life’s greatest hap¬ 
piness, for even ordinary joys are in Him, of Him, 
it will make all the difference.” 

“I don’t follow. How can one know God? He 
is a Being far away, at a great distance, not reach¬ 
able.” 

“He is all about you, not far away. He is so 
close that when you come to die and see Him face 

53 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


to face, you’ll be surprised to find how near He 
has been all the time. You don’t even have to 
stretch out your hand. He is in your heart.” 

“Even to acknowledge that, doesn't make you 
know Him.” 

“Concede that He is. Then rely on Him in sim¬ 
ple faith. Rely on Him. Trust Him. Then you 
will grow quickly to know Him, and knowing Him 
you can’t help loving Him. Love of God is lov¬ 
ing every one. Oh, don’t laugh. It comes, if you 
only love enough. Such love makes all the gladness 
of existence. You want to know everything, Diana, 
your heart is athirst for knowledge. Look into these 
things a bit. You’ll find it worth while.” 

“All my life I was choked out of knowing. It 
wasn’t ladylike to know.” 

“True, old dear. I’ve watched and felt sorry. 
But you know there were two trees in the garden 
of Eden.” 

“You think there was a time that I chose the 
tree of the knowledge of evil?” 

“I know you found evil where you walked. 
Whether you chose it for yourself or not, I must 
not say. There are such things as the ‘occasions 
of sin.’ ” 

“Walking even through wrong places is not sin, 
is it?” 

“No. But what about putting yourself deliber¬ 
ately in the way of temptation? People, places, 
things, can all be ‘occasions.’ Playing with fire is 

54 


DIANA QUESTIONS 

apt to result in disaster. A moth has no will of 
its own.” 

“Go on. I want your point of view. I have 
my own,” Diana added. 

Faith laughed. Diana could not see that Faith 
was studying the combat between modern pagan 
philosophy and the girl’s New England inheritance 
fighting in that tender thing called conscience. 
Diana’s very presence on this day was proof of it. 

“You’ve been given your chance for happiness, 
here and hereafter. Have you the right to deprive 
another of it, should God elect to bring another 
soul through you, into the world? Who are you, 
dear heart, to put your fears, your prejudices, 
against the omnipotent God Who creates the 
worlds? 

“I’ve not the right if your—theories—are true.” 

“They are not theories, but self-evident facts. 
None of us have the right. Not if we are Chris¬ 
tians. Were you ever taught the story of the fall 
of the angels ?” 

“Of course.” 

“We are born to fill the places of those angels, 
and atone to Infinite Goodness for their sin of pride. 
Have you the right to deprive a soul of this?” 

“Why, no. I don’t suppose so, if it’s true.” 

“It is the faith taught by the Church to which 
our Lord Jesus Christ, the divine Master said: 
‘Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will build My 
church.’ Simple enough isn’t it? Plain enough? 

55 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


And that church founded by God, forbids the prac¬ 
tise of such doctrine as you have heard, the prac¬ 
tises advocated by Arachne and her materialistic 
followers. You see, Di, it’s all there.” 

“But what about the awful poverty in the cities, 
cripples, children born blind, deaf, dumb? Is that 
right?” 

“Are their souls blind, deaf, dumb? They may 
have souls straighter than our own. Do you sup¬ 
pose Helen Kellar an isolated case? Not at all. 
Through the God-given genius that inspired her 
teacher, she’s been light, inspiration, hope, to hun¬ 
dreds like herself.” 

“Do you mind if I speak of something personal 
—about you and Jack?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Hazel said that if you two had known before¬ 
hand about Mickey’s lameness, you would have 
thought again.” 

“What nonsense you are repeating, child. What 
has our little boy’s lameness to do with his soul, his 
heart, his mind, whatever gifts or talents he may 
eventually show? Nothing. We are doing all in 
our power to cure him. God gives the great physi¬ 
cians and surgeons of His world, talent, light, 
genius. Even should they fail, we should have 
Mickey, the blessed lamb with his chance for hap¬ 
piness here and hereafter.” 

“Don’t mind my asking, if he did not get well, 
if you lost him through having brought him into the 

56 


DIANA QUESTIONS 

world like that, you’d be sorry. Honestly, wouldn’t 
you, Faith?” 

“Diana, darling, sorry? The most any of us can 
expect of life is perhaps seventy—or eighty years. 
Then the real life. Eternity, forever. Which 
would be better? To have had Mickey the few 
short years of life? Or to have sent a singing, joy¬ 
ous, radiant little boy into the joys of Paradise, 
to wait for us, pray for us, help us in all our dif¬ 
ficulties while we live, to be with us constantly ‘be¬ 
hind the veil,’ to meet us when we are called Home, 
and dwell with us in the delight of Heaven forever? 
Oh, blind Diana, not to see which is the better!” 

Silence, for a while. This point Diana had not 
considered. Then Faith said: 

“Milton’s lameness was his blindness. But what 
of his poesy? He left the world a greater gift 
perhaps than if he had been distracted by the outer 
world.” 

“I suppose you are right, there,” Diana said 
weakly, “but what of over-population in the cities?” 

“Not a sparrow falleth. He said that, too. And 
where the cities are overpopulated, there are whole 
stretches of country, waiting for the crowded dis¬ 
tricts to empty into them. Perhaps we will not live 
to see, but it’s not impossible that the eventual glory 
of our countrylands will be born of the overcrowded 
tenements. And this reminds me, Di. You were 
too young to have done any war work outside of 
your school. It has seemed so illogical that women, 

57 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


full of patriotism then, should now, at the call of 
this—Arachne—and her kind, have turned traitor 
to the country you professed to love.” 

At this attack Diana flushed and bridled up. 
Bred in the bone American, one great regret had 
been that she was born too late for the service she 
would have zealously given. 

“If this—practise—grows, where will the coun¬ 
tries find their sons at the next call?” 

“There will be no next call?” 

“I hope not, at least in our generation and the 
next. Naturally I think of my children. But if 
there should be a next call and they were grown, I 
would be ashamed of them did they not do their 
part. I am afraid, though, Arachne to the contrary, 
there will always be war. We loathe the idea, hate 
it, do all in our power to prevent it. If war comes 
—when war comes—are we to present to the enemy 
an armed body of superanuated men and women? 
Or throw our unguarded ports wide open, crying, 
‘Come, take possession of America! We have no 
sons to defend us!’ ” 

“If there should be difficulties between the nations, 
arbitration, not fighting, will settle the matter.” 

“So the doctrinaires back up their arguments 
with pacifistism! My darling Di, if the world is 
deprived of its sons, who will there be left to ar¬ 
bitrate ?” 

“The older brains of experienced men will pro¬ 
vide proper mediation between the countries.” 

58 


DIANA QUESTIONS 

While the full-grown, red-blooded powerful 
youth of the enemy is inventing with its fertile 
young mind a new and diabolical poison gas. 
Oh, no, Diana, the world needs children. 
We are not ready to make a free gift of 
our fields to the first enemy airplane! Fields! 
Deprive us of our children, and who will 
work them? When food grows scarce and prices 
far beyond the purses of the poor, go to the farms 
and ask where are the laborers. After the war one 
saw pitiful women, children, bending over crops and 
gathering, because there were no men. What had 
become of the men? Killed, or in the big cities, or 
unborn. Why were there no young boys to take 
their places? The birth-rate was low. Why it had 
fallen there’s not much need to ask. The state ex¬ 
isted, as Jack and I saw with our own eyes. Per¬ 
haps doing men’s work unfitted the women for their 
own, we can’t judge. But we do know that neither 
farm nor hillside is too remote to be flooded with 
whatever river of yellowed literature it pleases its 
perpetrators to send forth. Oh, we are in an en¬ 
viable position today, with prohibition that forces 
home-made poison and equally obnoxious drugs on 
weak bodies, and uncensored mails that vitiate still 
w r eaker characters! God give our American men 
and women light and common sense to see before 
it is too late!” 

“Do you feel it as much as all that? Why do 
you? Tell me. I really want to know.” 

59 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“So much that I wish I had a dozen sons to 
give our country.” 

“Would you make them all farmers and foresters, 
Faith? Or put them in the post offices as censors?” 
There was wicked irony in Diana’s face as she 
spoke. 

“I would have them good men, and courageous, 
brave enough to stand for what is right, independ¬ 
ent of political opinion and public sentiment. I 
would have them powers. Perhaps,” she laughed, 
“if there were a dozen they might make some im¬ 
pression!” 

“How could they be powers if they were farm¬ 
ers?” 

“Child, study your history if you would know the 
origin of many great Americans. Of course some 
of my dozen would live in the country. America 
needs good men in every branch of industry. We 
need miners, foresters, scientists, honest legal minds, 
and we do want artists and music makers and poets. 
That’s where the oldsters were far ahead of us.” 

“And what of criminals? Do we need them, 
too? We seem to have good breeding grounds in 
the overcrowded districts.” 

“And we will have still more in the sparsely set¬ 
tled ones if such theories as Arachne advocates gain 
ground!” 

“You ought to have been a lawyer.” 

“Thank you, dear, but I leave that to Jack. It’s 
his metier.” 


60 


DIANA QUESTIONS 


U I was thinking of your slums. One day some 
of us went sight-seeing. I felt like sending a bell¬ 
ringer through the streets to cry a protest. See 
this, and talk of souls and things of the spirit!” 

“Did you get close enough to them to look into 
their eyes?” 

“No, thank you. The sight of them was enough.” 

“I thought so. Some day you will understand 
that not all martyrs gained their Heaven in the 
time of Nero. These poor people have their 
crosses, and their crosses lift many of them to One 
Who was raised higher on a cross than any man. 
They have souls, and they have intelligences. Oh, 
my dear, my dear, your Arachnes will all have a 
great surprise when they come to die. Have you 
ever stopped to reflect why life is at all? No won¬ 
der your materialists are ignorant, believing the 
soul that animates our lives through a few fleeting 
years and lifts it up above the commonplace, is to 
be crushed like a brainless flower that has lived its 
day!” 

“I can’t agree when incomes to the question of 
poverty. Why should poverty be? Indeed, that 
was the basis of some of Arachnes’ strongest argu¬ 
ments.” 

“Of course it was. It could not have been other¬ 
wise. Do you think such minds could begin to grasp 
a thing like ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit?’ or the 
teachings of a Saint Francis of Assizi? Or the vol¬ 
untary poverty practised by hundreds of thousands 

61 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


of men and women vowed to the service of the 
King Who was born in a stable? Could such hed¬ 
onists possibly conceive the beauty of ‘The sweet 
Lady Poverty?’ Fear of poverty is the curse of 
the world today, yet great masterpieces are rarely 
born in palaces. It takes stress, necessity, to bring 
out the best and the worst. Whichever it is de¬ 
pends on the character of the individual. And”— 
she laughed—“most of the profiteers began humbly. 
They’ve not ended humbly!” 

Diana’s answering laugh was mirthless. Faith 
who had never studied the questions involved, had 
her Arachne at every point. She would like to have 
called her a visionary, but there was logic in each 
word. She looked at the lacy wreath of diamonds 
that encircled her wrist, Larry’s wedding gift, then 
got up. 

“Wait a minute,” Faith said. “There’s just one 
thing more, not an answer to economic question this 
time. We will leave all that out of it. Diana”— 
she took the girl’s cold hands in hers and looked 
down deep into the eyes that were inclined to turn 
away—“you couldn’t understand if I told you each 
one of us is the temple of the Holy Ghost—so I 
won’t appeal to you on that score, but—look at it 
as a matter of self-respect alone. Somehow one 
never questions the attitude of life-long friends, 
though one may not always approve. But you are 
young, the women you play about with are not old 
friends of yours, and there is no reason why you 

62 



DIANA QUESTIONS 


should follow their lead. Drop all these things, Di. 
You owe self-respect to you, to Larry. Leave 
things that are abnormal, unhealthy, out of your 
life altogether. The reason I didn’t go with the 
rest that day was simple enough. Jack and I have 
been happily married for years. I did not go be¬ 
cause I respect him too much, myself too much to 
be put in a position of hearing things not fit. Be¬ 
yond her economic theories, and material illusions, 
I know nothing of the actual thing Arachne teaches 
and I want to know nothing. Sophistry to the con¬ 
trary, there is such a thing as keeping your mind 
and heart entirely clean. One thing that hurts 
frightfully is, that public school children have been 
seen at these meetings. Perhaps they go out of 
curiosity, or bravado as you went. But once they 
hear what is taught, they learn to avoid the conse¬ 
quences of wrong-doing.” 

Diana gasped. The doctrine had not dawned 
upon her in this light. She withdrew her hands 
from Faith’s and gathered her cape about her. 

“The future of our country lies with our youth, 
you see,” Faith went on, determined that the 
younger woman should hear to the end. 

“We can’t, intelligent women, condemn our glo¬ 
rious America to disaster and our boys and girls 
to hell here and hereafter because of a lying evil 
that is being spread broadcast under the sheep’s 
clothing of economic necessity.” 

Diana trembled as she turned to say good-bye, 

63 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

and there were tears in her eyes. She felt that 
Faith knew better than anyone how it was with 
her and Larry. They might have been different 
if she had been more like Faith, or Lawrence Min¬ 
ton had been stronger. 

“Di—dear Di”—Faith’s voice was appealing 
now, and her eyes full of tender compassion—“it’s 
not too late. It takes courage, I know, but if you 
are not happy—about—tomorrow—it’s been done 
before-” 

Then Diana wrenched her hands away and with¬ 
out another word, fled into the springtime. 




CHAPTER V 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

M UMMIE, will Uncle Michael be there?” 

“Yes, Joan.” 

“I like Uncle Michael.” 

The child skipped ahead a few steps, came back, 
looked up at her mother like an inquisitive bird 
and remarked: 

“I don’t like Aunt Hilda—for she doesn’t like 
me! For she doesn’t like me!” making a song of 
it to Faith’s amused distress. 

“Darling, don’t say it, don’t sing it, don’t think 
it. You know Aunt Hilda always lets you play 
with the puppies-” 

“Say them, Mummie, say them quickly, then I’ll 
forget the song.” 

“Pavlova, Mordkin, Sacha-Guitry, Gambarelli.” 
“Say it again, Mummie, say it again.” 
Laughingly Faith repeated the list. 

“And there’s a Judy, a Judy I do not know. 
Will Judy be there?” 

“Judy’s always there. He never goes out.” 
“Why don’t I know him, Mummie?” 

“He was living in the country the last time I 

65 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

heard of him. But now he has come to town to 
stay.” 

“Why?” 

“Uncle Michael sold the place in the country.” 

“Why?” 

“Aunt Hildegarde was tired of it.” 

“Why was she tired of it?” 

“Too far from town.” 

“Where was it?” 

“At Roslyn, sweetheart, on Long Island.” 

“Oh!” For a brief moment the child seemed to 
reflect, then: 

“Why doesn’t Judy ever go out?” 

“He is so bright, somebody might steal him.” 

“Where does he play?” 

“In the conservatory. He plays all the time.” 

“Then he’s like me, too young to go to school.” 

Faith laughed again. 

“He’s too old to go to school. But he loves to 
play.” 

“Is it bad to be bright?” 

“It’s good to be bright, if you hide your light 
under a bushel so the thieves won’t find you, my 
lamb.” 

“Mummie, you do say such funny things! What 
light? What bushel? What thieves?” 

“When you are as old as Judy you’ll know.” 

“Lights and bushels and thieves, and Judy and 
Pavlova, and oh, such a funny house. Will we be 
there long?” 


66 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

There was a queer catch in her mother’s voice 
as she answered: “Not today, dear. Here we are.” 

She held tightly to Joan’s hand as the little thing 
tried to skip up the marble steps. She was so small 
to be left alone. And who could tell for how long? 

“Mummie, Aunt Hilda doesn’t like little girls. 
Had I better hide?” 

“Oh, darling, no. Aunt Hilda is going to love 
Joan. Besides, there’s Judy.” 

“And Mordkin, and Pavlova, and those other 
queer ones. Will I like them?” 

“Everybody loves them.” 

“I wish everybody loved Joan. Uncle Michael 
does, and Daddy, and you, and Mickey—but Aunt 

Hilda-” A look of doubt crossed the little face, 

but vanished at the opening of the front door. 

It was a different Matsuo from the one Faith had 
watched through the luncheon three years ago. 
Grey-faced, grey-haired, he stood aside to let them 
pass ahead. 

Not to everyone who came through that door 
was the grey head inclined as it bent to Faith Des¬ 
mond and all that were hers. 

“Is Mrs. Crighton at home, Matsuo?” 

“Yes, madam. In the library.” 

Joan’s low, clear tone dropped to a stage whisper 
as they followed the man up the stairs. 

“I’ve only seen them in dolls. This one ’pears 
to be alive, Mummie. Is it a man?” 

“Hush, dear, yes.” 


67 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“It walks ’xactly like a man.” Joan studied his 
movements as he went before them. 

“Hush, dear, he will hear you.” 

“Hears like a man,” murmured Joan to herself, 
“sees like a man, walks and bows like a man.” She 
cocked her head on one side and gurgled a little 
teasing laugh; “must be a man.’ 

Older people had been known to shrink from the 
tragedy of the eyes in which a certain haunting 
wonder, shadowed fear rather than remorse, veiled 
all expression in Matsuo’s face. But now the 
strange fires faded away as they always did when 
Faith came. As to Joan, he fascinated her. He 
was like a doll she had loved, like curious little fig¬ 
ures of men on a screen, and fantastic folk that 
marched in endless procession around her father’s 
lamp. 

In days that were to come she would never weary 
watching him, talking to him, playing where he 
might be at work. And he would grow to be to 
Joan what all her world grew to be, with one excep¬ 
tion, a friend who would brave everything for her. 

About Hildegarde she felt differently. Aunt Hilda 
had a way of looking over your head and all about 
you, and anywhere but at you. She would comment 
on your clothes and on what mothers ought to buy 
for children. Once she had started to prophesy 
what one might do when one grew up. It had some¬ 
thing to do with eyes, and “making them take no¬ 
tice.” Mummie had changed the subject and looked 

68 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

displeased. However, Aunt Hilda was the only one 
who was not delighted to see her. Maybe she was 
ill. Sometimes when Daddy was ill he would tell 
Joan to run away, his head ached. He always 
explained. Daddy never failed to tell her why 
she must play in another room. Perhaps Aunt 
Hilda’s head ached. But Aunt Hilda never ex¬ 
plained. 

Daddy loved Joan. Indeed he did! Had she only 
been old enough to understand, it was because 
Daddy loved her he was going to leave her here. 
That, like the thieves, and the light, and the bushel, 
she would know when she grew older. Mickey had 
come into the world handicapped. But Joan could 
not know that. Nor could she dream that because 
she might become handicapped, too, she must be 
kept away from possible danger. 

During her short span of remembrance, Aunt 
Hilda had always fluttered in and fluttered out. She 
never seemed to come quietly or go calmly. Always 
in motion, always excited, whether alone, or with 
others who flurried and shrilled as she did, she was 
either noisily in the doldrums or wildly gay. 

Usually when she came, it would be to dine, and 
past Joan’s bed-time. But even through her sleep 
the child would sense a restless presence and speak 
of it in the morning. It was the same, year in, 
year out. Just now it happened to be the Lenten 
season, and Hildegarde and her following com¬ 
plained long and loudly of the dullness. 

6 9 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


But it only made a difference to Faith and those of 
her friends who felt as she did. The opera went 
on, the play went on, dinners and lunches went on. 
Large dances were replaced by small ones, small 
ones were commuted to auction for larger stakes 
than earlier in the season. One must have one’s 
thrill. 

“We must be diverted. Lent is dreary. We 
might grow depressed.” 

To watch one hour, to suffer slight sacrifice for 
forty days in union with One Who had accepted life 
and given it to let them live mattered not at all. 

Kathleen Van Dysart and Bob had been spending 
the winter in Rome where they expected to remain 
until well into May. The intimacy that had once 
existed between Kathleen and Hildegarde had died 
a natural death. Kathleen had developed a quaint¬ 
ness of mind and manner incompatible with the 
high spirits of the other women. Her children kept 
her out of things by reason of her curious solicitude 
for them. She had even dragged them abroad, 
“though how old Bob endured it is hard to under¬ 
stand. So much better have left them at home in 
charge of some competent person.” No one knew 
better than Michael what Van Dysart’s feeling was 
in the matter; that had Kathleen not elected to take 
them, their father would have remained rooted in 
New York to work on in partnership with Michael 
Crighton. 

From the library rose the odor of burning cy- 

70 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

press, as Matsuo announced, “Mrs. Desmond, Miss 
Joan Desmond.” 

Joan found this very odd. 

“Mummie, they know who we are. They do 
know who we are,” she persisted, much to the amuse¬ 
ment of Hildegarde, who hovered up from the tea 
table glad of any diversion. Her flame of auburn 
hair above sea-green billowing chiffon was more ex¬ 
pressive of winter than of budding Spring. 

Someone else rose, too, with both hands stretched 
to catch the lithesome child who laughed with him, 
and swung her high before he set her down. This 
someone had watched her in her sleep where his 
watching had never disturbed, and at her play, and 
through her little years, and envied Faith and Jack 
the having of her. 

“Michael’s got a playmate his own age at last. 
What’s the playmate got to say about staying with 
him?” 

“Don’t—yet, Hilda. She doesn’t know.” 

“My word! How did you keep it? Why did 
you keep it?” 

“Jack and I thought it better to let her come to 
tea first, learn to know things about your house, 
gradually. She might be frightened if we broke it 
suddenly. You see, she’s never been inside the 
house before.” 

“Urn.” Hilda’s expresion was dubious. “She 
might be many things, but not frightened. Not 
Joan! Michael adores her, you know.” 

7 1 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


It was on the tip of Faith’s tongue to say that 
was why she and Jack had consented to allow the 
child to stay with them. Certainly not on Hilde- 
garde’s account, whose dislike of children was only 
too apparent, and with reason. Had the Van Dy- 
sarts been at home, there would have been no ques¬ 
tion as to Joan’s temporary habitat, while Faith 
accepted exile for the sake of her husband and 
Mickey. But Michael had pleaded for her, lonely 
Michael who loved children and would have had 
his house filled with them. 

“Yes, I know. She loves him too,” Faith had 
answered. 

Meanwhile the child, let down, had made the dip 
essential to her code, and laughed into the twinkling 
kindly eyes above her. She waited for him to speak. 
This uncle always spoke. He was, somehow, a 
very pleasant person. 

“Do you like birds?” he asked, with the eager¬ 
ness of a boy her own age. 

“Yes. I like birds. I like everything alive.” 

“Do you like tea?” 

What a funny question. She laughed aloud. Who 
wouldn’t like tea? 

“Yes. I like birds and tea.” 

“Well, if you like birds, and tea,—we’ll have 
both. How is that?” 

Joan giggled. By this time she was sitting as 
sedately as a little girl could sit whose legs were too 
short to do anything but stick straight out in front 

72 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

of her on the e-nor-mous chair into which the 
twinkly uncle had lifted her. 

“Will we have the birds with our tea?” 

“No. Cakes are for tea. Birds are for playing 
with.” 

She giggled again at her little joke, giggled po¬ 
litely, for though a very atom, she had a great sense 
of decorum, albeit that decorum were accompanied 
by an irresistible squirm of delight. 

She did love Uncle Michael. She would always 
love him. She could trust him. She would believe 
what he said were the whole world to contradict 
him. Had there been a doubt in her mind about 
Aunt Hilda’s welcome, and there was a decided 
doubt about it, Aunt Hilda’s husband had quickly 
dispelled it. Aunt Hilda’s husband? Could he be? 
Why was he? Daddy was Mummie’s husband and 
they thought and acted alike. Even Joan’s short 
years could perceive there was nothing much alike 
in the attitude of Uncle Michael and Aunt Hilde- 
garde. Then she forgot all about it. Under black 
curling lashes that fringed the deep blue of her eyes 
she studied him gravely, while he fetched a little 
table from a nest of lacquered tables, and put it 
within reach of her hand. He joked with her about 
waiting on the princess, and joked again when he 
brought out of nowhere a tiny napkin bought just 
for her, and set a cup brimful of milk beside her. 
Then with a nod from Faith, he put some bread and 
butter sandwiches on a small plate, sandwiches that 

73 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


must have been cut by fairy hands, so paper-thin 
they were. Then he added a ginger cake with a 
nut in the middle of it, smiling at her pleasure when 
he set it on the little table. 

His own tea was brought by Matsuo, then he 
drew his chair closer to the fire. 

“This is what I like,” he said, “I wish you could 
have tea with us here every day.” 

“Would Mummie let me?” 

“We might ask her.” 

“Oh, let us ask her?” 

“We will,” said Uncle Michael, greatly relieved 
for the ease with which the thing that had been quite 
settled before, was proceeding. 

“May she have tea with us every day, mother of 
Joan?” 

“Would she like to?” 

“Yes, Mummie, I’d love to.” 

“We’ll ask Daddy. How would that be?” 

“Oh, yes. You see,” she said, turning to her 
host, “Daddy never says no to anything I want. He 
will let me come. Where is Judy?” 

“Judy? You know about Judy?” 

“Yes. So bright the thieves might get him.” 

“True. He lives around the corner.” 

“Oh!” It was an exclamation of disappointment. 
She thought him to be in the house. She had not 
known what a conservatory was when her mother 
mentioned one. Now she felt it must be outside the 
building. 


74 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

“Corner of the room.” 

“Oh!” Then they laughed together. 

“Have you ever seen a rainbow bird?” 

“I’ve got a flannel one. But he’s almost all red.” 

“But this bird, my bird, is green and grey and 
blue, and—he’s alive.” 

“Oh!” The eyes opened wide. 

“He is a gifted bird, what you might call an edu¬ 
cated bird. Perhaps if you ask him, he might even 
say a word or two.” 

“Oh!” Forgotten, the milk. The ginger cake 
hung suspended like a moon in its first quarter, one 
bite gone out of it. What there was left she care¬ 
fully deposited beside the cup, worked her way down 
out of the chair, and came close beside him, one 
small hand on his knee. 

“Speak to Joan?” 

“Why not? He is perfectly conversant with two 
languages.” 

“Two?” 

“He speaks English and Portuguese.” 

“I know English. But Port—Port—igeese—no. 
Pm afraid I could not speak to him in that.” 

Here the funny uncle laughed out loud. 

“Faith, why have you neglected your daughter’s 
education? She does not speak Portuguese.” 

“Pm afraid that was an oversight. Suppose we 
let Judy teach her?” 

Hildegarde’s shrill laugh somehow stirred the 
peace of the room into disquiet. 

75 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Jack would be pleased to find Joan flinging the 
lingo of a Portuguese sailor to the four winds. It’s 
a queer thing, but that wretched bird always speaks 
Portuguese when I am in the room. Never a thing 
can 1 understand. But since his English is more or 
less odd, it’s just as well perhaps we don’t know 
what he is saying in his native tongue. I’ve an idea 
it’s not fit.” 

“We’ll make him turn about, old lady, and speak 
only English when you are there. Perhaps Joan 
will use her influence.” 

“If she doesn’t, no one can.” 

“Did you say around the corner?” 

The child who understood none of the undercur¬ 
rent running deep, looked up at Michael with danc¬ 
ing eyes that asked to be shown at once this remark¬ 
able Judy who had it in his power to teach a 
language with an unfamiliar name. Funny thing 
about Uncle Michael, you always knew that under 
his joking and twinkling, you could rely on his 
word. He had never broken a promise. He had 
never told her a thing in her short life that was not 
true. About Aunt Hildegarde she frequently had 
misgivings. She never seemed to laugh with one, 
but at one. Her mouth laughed, but her eyes had 
forgotten how to smile, if indeed they ever had 
known. It was disquieting. 

“Come and see. Right, Faith?” 

“Of course. I told her all about them, the pup¬ 
pies, too.” 


7 6 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

“Pavlova, an’ Mordkin, an’—Sash—Sash-” 

“Sascha-Guitry ?” 

“Yes, an’ Gambles.” 

“Right. I believe Gambles is a better name 
than Gambarelli. Ask Aunt Hilda to change the 
name. 

“You ask.” The child clung to his hand. 

“Gambles for Gambarelli, Hilda?” 

“Whatever you like. The idea was a toe-spin. 
The creature has a habit of twirling around. Re¬ 
minded me of the dancer at the Capital. Hence the 
name. She will probably call it what she likes any¬ 
way, so what’s the difference? That’s one beauty 
of having only dogs to bother about. One can’t 
change the name of humans so easily, can one?” 

But Michael was beyond reach of her voice and 
Faith did not heed what she said. 

Half walking, half skipping, Joan clung to this 
delightful fairy uncle who could produce under his 
own roof rare things that really belonged in parks 
or at the zoo. A Judy! What was a Judy? 

“Where is Judy?” 

“In his palace just beyond there, see? He lives 
under the palm trees.” 

“Palm trees? A little boy?” 

“No, child. Judy’s a bird.” 

“Oh! I thought—you were fooling all the time. 
I thought there was a boy. I did think the bird was 
some other one.” 

“Are you disappointed, lambkin?” 

77 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


The child’s face was more serious than it had 
been. 

“I like to play with children—sometimes. Mickey 
is lame, you know. I thought there might be a 
lively boy. Somewhere there might be one who 
would jump with me.” 

“I see.” Michael was not laughing now. Then 
he brightened up. 

“Judy will play with you, sweetheart, and watch 
to see if you can jump as high as he can fly.” 

“But there is a little boy? There must be a little 
boy in all this great big house. I’ve been so sure of 
it, Uncle Michael.” 

Michael answered, hardly aware of what he said, 
out of the dream that for years had glinted at him 
through the loneliness of his childless house. 

“Raphael is off at school. He only comes home 
for rare holidays. But here we are, and here’s 

Judy ” 

Struggling against real disappointment, for a boy 
away at school was as useful as no playmate at all, 
Joan looked at the bird. Against the dark of the 
trees his pink stand streaked like dawn, the bird 
looked at Joan. It even appraised her, sidling back 
and forth, clucking all the time, clucking incoher¬ 
ently. 

The child was so small. Her frock was pink like 
Judy’s stand, and not unlike another tropical bird, 
she stood poised, watching with eager eyes. Re¬ 
membering her manners, always to be polite, she 

78 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

made her little dip and bobbed the sleek black head. 
This was the captivation, the utter and eternal sub¬ 
jugation of Judy. He fluttered along to the end 
of the pink bar, wings atwitter, eyes alert. His 
clucking had turned to delightful gurglings that be¬ 
spoke joyousness and surprise. He cocked the 
bright green head. Then Joan cried: 

“He’s laughing! He laughs with me !” 

She reached up her arms to take him, a thing no 
one in all the house save Michael, had ever dared 
to do. And Judy responded. Carefully, balancing 
his body lightly in order not to hurt the slender arm 
held out to welcome him, he fluttered down from 
the perch and rested on it to Joan’s breathless sat¬ 
isfaction. Then, as if to crown the wonder of this 
moment, he looked straight into her eyes, and said 
distinctly, coherently, slowly: 

“A thousand greetings.” 

“Oh, dear bird! Dear bird!” She held his head 
close to her own, rubbing her cheek against his 
pretty feathers, Judy fluttering the while to keep his 
weight from hurting her. Then he lighted on 
Michael’s outstretched hand, made a few incoherent 
remarks, and flew back to the small pink arm, trust¬ 
ing. 

They played a great game then, the bird flying 
from one to the other till at last Joan fell a giggling, 
exhausted heap on the floor. 

“I thought Judy was a girl’s name, too, Uncle 
Michael. How is that?” 


79 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Once upon a time we had two,’' began Michael. 
“One was Punch, one Judy. Judy died. We really 
couldn’t help it,” seeing the distressed look in the 
child’s face, “It happens to birds just as it does to 
human beings. Punch took the loss so much to 
heart we were afraid we were going to lose him. 
Can you imagine it? He would not eat. We’d 
call him, ‘Punch—Punch, come and dine.’ But he 
would not stir. One day Matsuo, he is the Jap you 
saw, came along with the bowl that had belonged 
to Judy and said, ‘Judy eats.’ And this remark¬ 
able bird ate everything in the bowl and would only 
answer to the name of Judy after that. If we called 
him Punch he’d sulk for hours.” 

“Dear Judy. Dear, dear bird. Make him speak 
Port-u-guese, Uncle Michael.” 

“English Judy. English Judy,” he gurgled, who 
had once been Punch. 

“I never heard him say that before.” And 
Michael noticed then, a thing that afterwards be¬ 
came a curious fact and noteworthy, that never as 
long as the child remained with the Crightons, did 
Judy address her in anything but English, clearly 
enunciated. There was to come a day, when— 
but Hildegarde was another story with Judy, 
not of the same race as Michael and the child 
Joan. 

“And where are Pavlova an’ Mordkin, an’ Sashes 
Guitar an’ Gambles, please?” 

Michael touched a button in the wall. With the 

80 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

swiftness and precision of a Jack-in-the-box, Matsuo 
appeared. 

“Get Miss Joan’s hat and coat, Matsuo. We are 
going out.” 

In less than a minute he was back with them. 

With the confidence of one to whom he belonged 
the child slipped her hand in Michael’s, and together 
they went down steps that led from the conservatory 
into a small walled garden. A wild rush. Four 
little dogs fairly hurled themselves at their master; 
a Pekinese, a toy fox terrier, a Boston bull, and 
Gambarelli, the tiny white French poodle. 

“Which is which? Oh, which is which?” shouted 
Joan, not waiting for an answer, but jumping up and 
down and racing around with the puppies in sheer 
starved rapture. Michael stood watching her, and 
caught her up when at last she ran to him. 

“Oh, Uncle Michael, if I could come and play 
here every day it would be such fun! Do ask Mum- 
mie and Daddy to let me come? I could play with 
Judy and the puppies, and they could play together, 
too. I’d not spoil their fun, indeed I wouldn’t. 
Whose are they, the puppies? The boy’s? Raph- 
Raph-Raphy’s?” 

“They’re Aunt Hilda’s.” 

“She wouldn’t play with them. Why does she 
have them? Is it just to look at? Oh! The little 
boy is her’s, too. She must have them for him?” 

“Yes. For the little boy,” answered poor 
Michael. 


81 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Joan picked Gambarelli up in her arms. She ex¬ 
amined her face minutely. Then she set her down, 
and proceeded to do the same with each of the four 
puppies. 

“The trouble with puppies, even the nicest of 
them,” she said, “is that their eyes are not like 
stars.” 

“Why, not like stars?” 

“Baby’s eyes. That’s why puppies never can 
quite take their place.” 

“Puppies don’t, you funny child.” 

“Aunt Hilda has all these. But Raphy’s never 
home, and there’s no little girl, like Joan.” The 
Pekinese at that moment was prancing at her feet. 
She stooped and lifted the golden creature in her 
arms and held him close. She looked into the round 
staring eyes, and gave him to Michael. 

“Eye-stars are lights. These see, Uncle Michael, 
but they don’t give light, do they? They are just 
puppies, an’ all the pretending in the world won’t 
make them into babies. When I grow up I will fill 
my house with babies, star-eyed ones. Girls and 
boys will fill Joan’s house. Why is there no little 
girl in your house, Uncle Michael?” 

Desperate Michael cried: 

“But there is!” 

“Your little girl?” 

“Well, no. She’s a neighbour’s little girl and she 
comes in to play with Raphael.” 

“What’s her name?” 


82 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

“Romilda.” 

“Where is she now?” 

“Um-m, she’s off at school too.” 

“Everybody’s off at school but Joan. Are the 
puppies lonely when the children are off at school?” 

“Very lonely.” 

“And Judy?” 

“And Judy.” 

“Oh.” She stood silent, revolving in her mind. 
Then, “Mummie has Daddy, an’ Daddy has Mum- 
mie, an’ Mummie an’ Daddy have Mickey, an’ 
Mickey has Mummie an’ Daddy,—an’ I think 
Uncle Michael, while Raphy an’ Romilda are off 
at school, I might come an’ stay here.” 

Apparently this Uncle Michael, this child Michael, 
had she really understood the thing she felt, should 
not live in so large a house, a house so perfectly 
adapted to hordes of children, without at least one 
small girl to help him endure it. 

“How old is Raphy?” 

“He’s eight.” Heaven help him for sending him 
off to school at so early an age, thought Michael. 
Rut what could he do? He had dreamed the chil¬ 
dren into his life so long a time, had watched them 
grow through the years, Raphael, his son, and the 
playmate who came from the big red house close 
by. They had become as tangible as the stone and 
mortar of the churches he built. He was their 
architect. 

“Is he far away?” 


83 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“At Canterbury.” 

“Where is Canterbury?” 

“In Connecticut.” 

“Does he like Canterbury?” 

“He loves it.” 

“Oh. Who tucks him in?” 

“Um-m.” Michael had heard vaguely of such 
institutions as House-mothers, so he ventured: 

“The House-Mother.” 

“Out of Alice-in-Wonderland?” 

“Out of Wonderland.” 

“Well, I suppose she’d do it better than Aunt 
Hilda,—at least as well. Where is Romilda? How 
old is Romilda? Did the people name her for Aunt 
Hilda? It’s something like, but different. 

“She’s down in Philadelphia at Eden Hall, a 
Sacred Heart convent.” 

“Oh, then it’s the best school in all the world. 
Mummie went to the Sacred Heart convent. What¬ 
ever Mummie does is the best.” 

“Yes, darling, always remember that. Whatever 
your Mummie does is the best, and the convents are 
the best schools the whole world has to give any 
girl, little or big.” 

“Mummie’s school was far away.” 

“That convent of the Sacred Heart is in England, 
and it’s called Roehampton. I know it well—just 
across the road from Ranelagh.” 

“Eden Hall is a pretty name. Why is Romilda 
so far away?” 


84 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

‘‘Because she's a very little girl, and they don’t 
take the very little ones at Manhattanville. It’s a 
college, you see.” 

“Oh, for grown-up girls?” 

“Just that, for grown-up girls.” 

“Is Romilda eight, too?” 

“Eight, too.” 

“Just as old as Raphy. Is she a twin?” 

“She would have to be his sister to be Raphy’s 
twin.” 

“Am I Mickey’s twin?” 

“You and Mickey are not just as old as.” 

“Oh, no. I’m years older than Mickey. Old 
enough to stay away by myself. Uncle Michael, 
did you say you would like to have me stay till 
Raphy an’ Romilda come home?” 

“More than anything.” 

“I just knew you would. But I’m puzzled about 
Aunt Hilda. Would she want me? She doesn’t 
like little girls, you know.” 

“She wants you. I heard her say so.” 

“Oh, that w r ould be nice, to hear her say 
so.” 

But though eventually Joan came and stayed and 
Hildegarde did what might have been expected of 
her, Joan never heard her say so. Michael forgot 
to tell her and after the first few weeks Joan gave 
up hoping that she might. 

But tonight there was her mother to take counsel 
with. Would she give her consent? 

85 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Mummie, you couldn’t spare me, or Daddy, 
could you? It’s a sweet bird.” 

“Darling,” Faith’s arms were about her, hold¬ 
ing her to hide the tears that forced themselves 
against a stronger will, to steady a voice inclined to 
quiver. 

“Poor Daddy’s sick and Mummie believes the 
mountains would make him well. Mickey needs the 
change. How would you really like to pay Uncle 
Michael—and,” weakly, “Aunt Hildegarde,” and 
—full strength ahead now, “Judy—a little visit, 
while we are off finding health for the boys?” 

“Boys? Daddy?” Again the little giggle. Then 
the child took on another expression. Brought face 
to face wfith the possibility of staying, Joan looked, 
not at her mother nor Michael, but focussed her 
clear eyes on the vision in green behind the tea 
things. 

“Who will hear my prayers? Who will tuck me 
in? Who will dress me? Who will give me my 
bath? Have you a House-mother here, Aunt 
Hilda?” 

Hildegarde, who through her green eyes had 
been observing her, much as she would have looked 
at a strange young animal in the zoo, answered: 

“Not precisely. How’d you like your ow T n 
nurse ?” 

“Rhea? I’d love Rhea. She can’t hear my 
prayers or tuck me in, though.” 

“Perhaps Aunt Hilda would,” suggested Faith. 

86 


JOAN MEETS JUDY 

Once let Hilda learn what it really meant. Once 
let her learn. 

“Mummie, I’ll let Rhea do it,” said Joan, melt¬ 
ing into the arms that held her, though a sense of 
duty towards her hostess prompted her to add: 

“Poor Aunt Hilda doesn’t know how. You see 
the House-mother ’tends to tucking in Raphy. You 
never sent Joan off to school while she was little, so 
that’s how you know so well what to do, Mummie.” 

“What have you been telling her, Michael?” 

If the words had been steel someone might have 
been hurt. 

“About Raphael at Canterbury, and our small 
neighbor, Romilda, with the nuns at Eden Hall. 
We will often speak to Joan about our son and the 
child who comes to play with him. Since we see 
them rarely, it keeps them near to talk about them. 
It will be great fun for Joan to get the news of 
them.” 

“What nonsense are you putting in her head.” 

“Why not? Why not share what I have? Not 
everyone appreciates it. And it’s quite worth while. 
Isn’t it, Faith? Back me up, oh, source of wisdom.” 

For all that Hilda was his wife, Faith knew 
Michael’s soul the better of the two, and laughed 
her answer: 

“Dream on in peace, Michael. You’re as old as 
Joan and will never be older or wiser than she. 
You and I can never change the Michael that is, 
for the Michael that ought to be, Hilda mine.” 

87 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“Sometimes he carries his absurdities too far. 
One day he will be burnt.” 

“Then Joan will put out the flames,” Michael vol¬ 
unteered. “Will you, lambkin?” 

“With a wet blanket I’ll put them out.” 

But it was twelve years before she understood 
why they laughed. 


88 


CHAPTER VI 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

“OUCH a bore. Why under Heaven must this 

O creature, Rhea, get the flu after the child is 
established here? Any one of our own maids could 
look out for her, Michael. Why have her under my 
heels? Tell me that.” 

“She’s no trouble. Take her out to the conserv¬ 
atory and let her play with Judy.” 

“And all these notes to be answered? Mercy! 
Why can’t she go alone?” 

“She could, if she were ours. But somehow I 
feel a sort of trust for her. She’s so tiny a thing 
and might get hurt.” 

Hilda lifted her hands in despair. “Now if that 
Japanese woman hadn’t disappeared we need not 
have bothered about having the nurse at all. Be¬ 
sides, she makes me uncomfortable. How do we 
know she doesn’t repeat everything that happens in 
the house?” 

“Why shouldn’t she, old girl? Nothing happens 
not repeatable.” 

“Then perhaps she invents. Frankly, she gets 
on my nerves.” 


89 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Don’t let her. She’s all right. It’s really better 
the child should have someone of her own nearby. 
It makes less responsibility for you, sw r eetheart. It 
does, you know. Did I hear you say Mrs. Clavering 
was coming to lunch?” 

“She was. I can call her off if you say so. I’ve 
been keen to see her. She telephoned. She ran 
into Diana, yesterday.” 

Hildegarde watched to see how he would take 
this item of information. Diana had been the talk 
of the town for a brief space. 

“She saw Diana Minton? Why, I thought-” 

“Yes, I know you did. So did I. But she’s here. 
Peculiarly is Diana here. Thought I'd get the de¬ 
tails.” 

“Have Mrs. Clavering if you like. I don’t want 
to interfere, dear. But please, I beg of you, don’t 
talk about it before Joan.” 

“What could she understand, a child of seven? 
Whatever we say’d be above her head.” 

“She’s bright. She has imagination and a ter¬ 
rific memory. I confess her memory frightens even 
old Michael. One never can tell how much such 
children keep in their restless heads.” 

“Oh, very well. Home for lunch?” 

She asked indifferently, aware that no power could 
drag him to face Olga Clavering if he could avoid 
it. 

“No. Not today.” 

There were times when the man almost regretted 

90 



JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

having been allowed to keep Joan through her fam¬ 
ine’s exile. Not for the precious moments when he 
and she could play together like the children both 
w r ere, nor for the joy she found in Judy and the four 
little dogs, but for the enforced times with Hilde- 
garde. Once, at the end of a long day, he had seen 
traces of tears. What had happened, the loyal little 
creature never told, nor would he ask Hildegarde. 
And again, he had had to be out of town from Mon¬ 
day to the following Thursday. When he got back, 
Hilda had looked up from her chaise-longue and 
said: “ ’Lo, Michael. Home so soon?” But Joan 
had run to him and held him, asking through serious 
eyes, not dancing as was their w r ont: “Uncle 
Michael, when will my Daddy come home? I think 
I’m afraid.” He had lifted her high and made her 
smile, and taken her out to Judy’s perch where she 
usually forgot her troubles. Not even then would 
she speak of what she might have heard concerning 
her father, and his illness, the thing that evidently 
frightened her. But now Hilda spoke: 

“Here’s a letter for Joan. Thought you’d better 
see first.” 

“Hello !” exclaimed Michael. “From Jack. The 
very thing to break the ice. You read it to her after 
I leave. The very thing to help you through. Help¬ 
ing things have a way of dropping out of nowhere 
when you need them, haven’t they?” 

“Foolish person. Give me the letter. May use 
up five minutes. Anything is better than having her 

9 1 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


stare at me with those round eyes, or having her ask 
me questions a Solomon couldn’t answer. G’bye, 
old dear.” 

As Michael started to go he saw Matsuo stand¬ 
ing in the hall. 

“Call Katie to take Miss Joan to madam’s morn¬ 
ing room. It’s pleasanter there than in the library.” 

“Yes, sir. Please, sir.” 

“What is it?” 

“Being in and out of the dining-room, if madam 
would permit, I could watch that the little lady 
comes to no hurt, sir. She is happy with Judy, and 
if permitted I could bring in one or two dogs.” 

“Good idea. I will tell Mrs. Crighton. Call Katie 
now.” 

Hildegarde dropped the telephone receiver in 
haste as Michael came back unexpectedly to the 
morning room. 

“When you’ve read the letter, let Joan go to the 
conservatory with Matsuo. That will keep her 
amused and out of your way, sweetheart. She can 
have the dogs in there. Matsuo will see that they 
don’t escape through the house.” 

“Happy thought.” He started to the door and 
hesitated. He did not like to speak of these things 
to Hilda. She somehow wouldn’t understand. But 
—there was Joan to be thought of since she was in 
his house. 

“Hilda, I believe if you saw more of her—she 
zvould win you a bit. Why not try?” 

92 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 


“A child? Michael! Don’t you know me bet¬ 
ter than that?” 

“No. I don’t believe I do,” he sighed, then 
closed the door behind him. A faint lilting song 
drifted down the banisters and a small bobbed head 
peeped over them. 

“Take me with you.” 

“Can’t today, lamb. But what do you think? 
Aunt Hilda has news for you. Great news. 
Guess.” 

“A letter from Mummie!” The eyes danced as 
she flew down to him. 

“Warm. Guess again.” 

“Not—from—my —Daddy ?” 

“Righto, honey. Hot.” 

“Why, he hasn’t written me a letter for ever and 
ever. Is he getting well?” 

“I think he must be.” 

“Everything happens at once. Isn’t it lovely? 
Daddy getting well, Raphy and Romilda coming 
home. Maybe Daddy an’ Mummie an’ Mickey 
coming home. What a splendid day! Like a birth¬ 
day.” 

“Raphy coming home? Who told you that, 
wisp r 

“Rhea. She knows everything. She told me 
how all little boys and girls come home from school 
in June, and it’s pretty near the end of May.” 

“Oh, yes, so they do. So they do. We will see 
what we can do about it. Now Uncle Michael must 

93 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

run along. Wish me luck. There’s a wonderful 
work ahead.” 

“New Candlestick?” 

“A very important candlestick. What would you 
say to a new altar in the Lady Chapel at the Cathe¬ 
dral?” 

“No!” 

“And a great high grille of iron lace to separate 
the chapel from the rest of the church ? And a beau¬ 
tiful wide gate to enter by?” 

“No!” 

“And windows like the Cathedral at Chartres 
with glass the color of rubies and sapphires and em¬ 
eralds?” 

“No! I don’t know what it all means, but it 
seems to me those are the busiest candlesticks I ever 
heard about.” 

“Say a little prayer then, for Uncle Michael, that 
his work may be fit for the Best.” 

“Who to?” 

“Why, who but a carpenter saint, blessed child. 
His name is Joseph. He was the greatest candle- 
stickmaker of all.” 

“Why?” 

She was on the floor now, looking up at this 
quizzical uncle who had an odd way of put¬ 
ting things into one’s head where they somehow 
stayed. 

“He is inspiration. Without inspiration no 
work is any good at all.” 


94 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

“Is the carpenter saint’s in-spir—inspir-” 

“—ation.” 

“—ation, just for carpentering candlesticks?” 

“I’m thinking it’s for carpentering lives, Joan— 
through the great light bearer.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Mother Church.” 

He stooped and kissed her, turned once, waved 
his hand and was gone. 

Still the child sat, thinking. Little Gambles, re¬ 
leased from the walled garden, danced up to her and 
ran away, then rushed back, watching to see what 
she would do. She teased her a moment, then took 
her up, and walked with the puppy in her arms as 
far as the door of the morning room. 

Carpentering life, he had said. Carpentering 
Daddy’s life perhaps. Daddy’s life needed carpen¬ 
tering, for it had been broken. And Mickey’s life 
needed carpentering. The carpenter-saint, Saint 
Joseph. She knew all about him. There was a 
little doll of him on her altar at home, the tiny altar 
Uncle Michael had given her. It was in front of it 
Mummie heard her say her prayers. If Saint Joseph 
helped Uncle Michael do the beautiful things in the 
Lady Chapel, it would be work done for the Boy 
Christ that angels sing to, at Christmas time. Joan 
must pray hard, for this candlestick must be a cradle, 
golden and beautiful, set in carvings of marble, such 
as Uncle Michael knew so well to make. A Christ¬ 
mas cradle for Some One—the carpenter-saint’s 

95 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


foster Son. If Joan can think of Him in the warm 
golden cradle, she need not cry alone in her bed on 
Christmas Eve—at thought of the cold manger— 
and the straw—and only the breath of an ass and 
an ox to keep Him warm. Oh, Joan must pray 
with all her heart for the new candlestick Uncle 
Michael was going to build. 

Filled with these thoughts the child turned the 
knob of the morning room door gently. Aunt Hilda 
would be angry if there were any noise. And she 
would be angry, too, if Gambles were allowed in 
the room. So she set the little dog down on the 
floor outside, leaned down and whispered in her 
ear: 

“Go wait for me with Judy. Joan won’t be long.” 

The French poodle trotted off obediently in the 
direction of the conservatory. 

Aunt Hildegarde was talking to some one on the 
telephone, so Joan waited, quiet as a mouse, behind 
the half-open door. 

“Yes. Come to lunch. No, don’t tell me now. 
It’s too long, and I want to hear every detail. 
Screamingly funny you should run into her. The 
child? Lord, yes. Can’t shake her. Oh, no. She 
never understands. Her head is full of Michael’s 
nonsense, fairy tales, and foolishness. She won’t 
even hear us. Sometimes I think she’s not human. 
Half-past one, then? So long.” 

Joan stood rooted. She had a feeling she ought 
not to have heard what Aunt Hildegarde had said, 

96 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

but she really did not know what it meant. There 
had been no way for her not to hear. Uncle 
Michael had never told her a fairy story in all her 
life. He had too many real things to talk about, 
the fancies that dwell in every creature in God’s 
world. So she gave a discreet small cough, then 
made her presence visible, asking: 

“Did you have a letter for me, Aunt Hilda?” 

“Good gracious, child, when did you come in?” 

“Just a minute ago.” 

“Did you hear what I said?” 

“I did hear. But it didn’t have sense to me. 
Uncle Michael never told me a fairy story in all 
my life, though,” she must adhere strictly to the 
truth, “about the sweet spirits that live in the house 
and all around, the angels, and the dear ones that 
have died and see the face of God, he does tell 
me, of course. They are realer than you and me. 
But never stories. Those are not true things.” 
That bridge safely over! 

“Then come to me and listen. There’s a letter 
from your father.” 

“For me? Addressed to Joan?” 

“Yes. For you. See? Here it is, Miss Joan 
Desmond.” The child gasped with the wonder of 
it. Other letters had come, sent in care of the 
grown-ups, but this was her own, her very own. 
Had Hildegarde been Michael, Joan would not have 
seated herself on the stiff chair beside the desk by 
choice. But there was something about Aunt Hil- 

97 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


degarde that precluded familiarity, such familiarity 
as snuggling up and trying to decipher the letter in 
her hand. Then there were her clothes. They al¬ 
ways looked as if a touch might wither them, so 
fragile their fabric, so dainty their construction. 
Indeed, Aunt Hilda herself looked as frail as they. 
In spite of her fragility, Hildegarde had a strange 
effect on Joan. In her presence she felt as if 
a band tightened, a steel band, all about her heart, 
or as if an iron weight pressed on her breast. 
Somehow the child wanted to shrink into the small¬ 
est space possible. 

Even with the letter before her, Joan remem¬ 
bered how for the first night or two of her visit, 
Hildegarde had gone in to her room at bedtime 
and given her a perfunctory kiss. Good mornings 
were left exclusively to Uncle Michael, as Aunt 
Hilda was never to be seen till noon. But Joan had 
recoiled involuntarily from the indifferent caress and 
now it was never offered. Once in a burst of con¬ 
fidence she had whispered into the spot where by 
right, Judy’s ear should have been, “I’d rather a 
bee would sting me.” Judy had laughed loud and 
long, so long that Joan was afraid Aunt Hilda 
might hear and come and ask what it was all about. 
In honor she would have had to tell. 

Thinking over all these things, she watched the 
cool white hands play with the little jeweled dag¬ 
ger that was to open Daddy’s letter. Out from 
the envelope fell a four-leaved clover, still green. 

98 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

“Odd idea. You could probably find hundreds 
of them in the park.” 

Never a word spoke the child, but she slipped 
down from the high stiff chair, took the leaf ten¬ 
derly into her small hand, and kissed it, then climbed 
back. 

“Why on earth did you do that?” 

“It’s Daddy’s leaf. Will you please read me his 
letter, Aunt Hilda? I’m sorry not to read writing. 
Uncle Michael says some day I will. Then I can 
read all the letters Daddy writes.” 

“Uncanny creature,” thought Hildegarde, “I be¬ 
lieve she knows how all this bores me.” 

It never occurred to her that the instinct of a 
girl-child is sometimes second only to that of the 
angels. But had she known, she would not have 
cared. And that was largely the pity of it. 

“ ‘Tucson, Arizona. May 15, 19— 

“ ‘My Darling: 

“ ‘If anyone had told me two months ago that I 
would be writing you today, writing out of doors, 
without a hat, without a coat, old Billy Bobtail my 
new horse, sailing around the corral, waiting to take 
me for a canter, I should have called him no true 
prophet. But the thing is true, my precious, true. 
Your Daddy is so well that soon we will be together, 
you and I. How is thatV ” 

Had Michael read instead of Hildegarde there 
would have issued a great shout of joy, a dance 
around the room, and Judy and all the little dogs 

99 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

would have been brought in to hear the good 
news. 

Instead of that, two great tears came to the blue 
eyes, and fell to bathe the clover leaf held tenderly 
against the trembling lips. 

“Good Lord, the child's crying. What on earth 
for?” 

“Guess it's because I'm glad,” Joan managed 
to articulate, trying to smile and succeeding a little. 
Then: 

“More, please.” 

“It's a quaint way of showing delight. Let me 
see. Where was I? Oh, yes. ‘Mummie and I 
have decided under doctor's orders to move farther 
away, in fact as far out as we can go without actu¬ 
ally popping into the Pacific. And we will take 
you with us.’ ” 

“Oh!" Self-restraint—fear of disarranging 
Hilda swept away, Joan was out of her chair, 
eagerlv leaning over the letter, crying, “More! 
More!” 

“Let's see. Here it is. Sound’s attractive. 
‘There's a heavenly spot called Carmel, with little 
cottages and a beach. Cottages like doll houses, 
and a beach that stretches miles along the coast! 
The wee house we have taken is just made for Mum¬ 
mie, Joan, Mickey and Daddy. We'll have two live 
Japanese dolls to take care of us, and Rhea. Out 
to the front one looks across a changing sea and 
dreams into Hawaii and Japan. On a still night, 

ioo 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

they tell us one can almost hear the ukuleles. But 

those who tell the story know mind-messengers as we 

« 

do, and that there's nothing beautiful in the whole 
of God’s great world they cannot bring at will. 

“ ‘We’ll take our car and wander up and down 
the coast. Oh, there’s so much, dear little heart. 
One day we’ll go as far as Monte Maddalena and 
find Aunt Damaris. She’s not Aunt Damaris now, 
for they call her Mother Mary of Gethsemane, and 
she prays behind enclosures for just such little girls 
as mine, that they may be happy and good and 
grow up to be splendid “Valiant women.” But she’s 
there and you may hear her voice, and the cliff is 
there, and the swooping sea gulls, and the joyous 
bells that ring out their “Come, and praise Him,” 
all the way to Carmel. 

“ ‘Mummie, Mickey and I start on Tuesday. 
When we are quite settled we will send for you 
and Rhea. God keep you safe, my treasure. All 
our love to Aunt Hildegarde, Uncle Michael, and 
Joan. Daddy.’ ” 

Light, joy in the child’s face. And Hildegarde 
saw it. Perhaps for the first time in the span of 
selfish years, she realized what it might have been 
to have possessed such love as this. 

“Are you very happy, Joan?” 

“So happy I can hardly wait. When will two 
weeks be? Do you think it will take more than 
two weeks?” 


IOI 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Hardly. Tell me something, Joan.” For the 
first time, she took the slender little figure in her 
two hands and held her so that she could look into 
her face. Joan stiffened involuntarily. 

“What is this you feel for them that makes you 
happy at the thought of being with them?” 

“Mummie? And Daddy? And Mickey?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“Oh, just being with.” And to the utter surprise 
of both, Joan burst into a storm of tears. And to 
the greater amazement of Hildegarde, she found 
it entirely natural to hold the little sobbing thing 
in her arms till the tempest had passed. And to 
the consternation of her, she felt in her own breast 
a stirring of something painfully sweet, something 
she did not in the least understand. 

“It’s just because I’m—g-glad,” apologized Joan. 
Then, over the dark head, Hildegarde smiled. If 
Michael had seen her then, it might have made a 
difference. But Michael was not there, and when 
Hilda smiled that smile again, it was too late to 
make any difference at all. 

She waited patiently till all sign of disturbance 
had subsided. Then, sunshine. Came a dimple 
that had never been seen save by those whom 
Joan admitted to the inner sanctum of her young 
life. 

“I think it will be hard for me to wait till Uncle 
Michael comes home.” 

“Will it?” 


102 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

u Oh, Aunt Hilda—if it wouldn’t be any trouble, 
could Rhea take me where he is? I want to show 
him the letter. He’ll be s’prised.” 

Eagerly she asked it, the light still in her face. 
Through Hildegarde’s sheet armor plate, the sun¬ 
shine struck. 

“I’m afraid there might be people with him. He 
might not be free enough to talk to you about it— 
but—how would you like to call him up?” 

“Oh, the telephonef Oh, not on the telephone? 
Really?” 

Hilda nodded. She had had no idea any child 
could be so congenial. 

“Yes. Wait.” She took the receiver into her 
own hand. 

“Stuyvesant, 5896. Yes. This is Mrs. Crighton. 
Yes.” 

The child’s cheeks were aflame, her eyes dancing, 
and the four-leaved clover perished in the hot small 
hand, the while an eager heart beat high. 

“It’s all right, Michael. Surprised?” 

She laughed, then said: 

“You’ll be more surprised when I tell you it’s 
Joan. I’m afraid if she doesn’t talk to you she’ll 
appear at your diggings and I know you won’t stand 
for that. Wait, here she is.” 

Joan had never seen so marvellous a telephone. 
She thought they were all black. This one was blue 
with little roses on it. But of course Aunt Hilda 
must have things quite different. 

103 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“Uncle Michael?” quavered a small voice. 

A pause. Michael at the other end waited to 
see what the child would do. Had he had any mis¬ 
givings as to her state of mind, a funny, gurgly, 
happy sound reassured him. 

“Daddy wrote to me. He sent me a letter.” 

Hildegarde could almost see her husband’s 
feigned astonishment as the deep, strong voice car¬ 
ried to where she sat. 

“No!” 

“Yes, he did. He did.” The head nodded itself 
emphatically and the rippling laugh carried even to 
the gargoyles that had gazed down on the candle¬ 
stick maker for many a long day. 

“He is well. Daddy says he is all well, and his 
horse is Billy Bobtail.” An excited giggle. An 
evident answer. 

“Oh, no. He was sailing around the cor— 
cor-” she turned to Hilda. 

“What was he sailing around, Aunt Hilda?” 

“The corral, you funny imp.” 

“Corral, Uncle Michael. I don’t know what it 
means. My beads are coral. An’ it’s about Joan 
and a doll’s house, an’ one hears across to—ukuleles. 
Rhea will come, an’ you will tell us how to get 
there, won’t you, Uncle Michael? We just might 
lose ourselves. An’ it’s ten days, nearly two weeks, 
and p’r’aps a car will take us coasting, and dear 
old priests will come to us for tea.” 

Hilda burst out laughing. 

104 



JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

“Where on earth did you get that? It’s not in 
the letter.” 

“Oh, just because. I like ’em. And they get 
the candlesticks. Uncle Michael might not under¬ 
stand about the Aunt Mary little girls may hear 
an’ not see.” Then she turned back to the telephone 
to a Michael who thought the connection had been 
broken off. 

“Now I’m going to tell Judy an’ the puppies.” 

“And you will tell me the rest when I get 
home?” 

“Yes. Good-bye.” She hung the blue receiver 
carefully back on its garlanded hook. She would 
not have been so careful with the black one in 
Uncle Michael’s library. 

“Now, Judy.” 

“Judy, dogs, anything.” The moment of grace 
had passed. Olga was coming. Olga would tell 
her the gossip, this Olga who must be kept more 
or less under restraint till the child could be gotten 
out of the way. Two whole weeks till freedom! 
Well, thank Heaven, two weeks was not so very 
far away. 

It was the Japanese who witnessed the child’s 
rapturous description of glories to come, told to the 
sympathetic Judy. Matsuo listened with the ab¬ 
sorption of one to whom the narrator had become 
as light to his eyes. Somewhere perhaps, was an- 
nother child, younger than she, to whom just “being 
with,” might have meant as much, a child whose 

105 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


baby shoe was worn indeed, though not by patter¬ 
ing feet. Matsuo knew. 

Often when setting the table for Hildegarde and 
her friends, another day came before him, and one 
he loved in the pantry, pleading. Today, which of 
the women was it to be? 

Behind the impenetrable mask, Matsuo was 
aware of much that would have startled even 
Michael. Had Michael but been cognizant of it 
it was Matsuo’s business to know people. He would 
have preferred to close the door in Mrs. Claver¬ 
ing’s face than to announce her. 

Half-friendship, half-deceit, half-truth, half¬ 
womanhood. He knew the type that makes two- 
thirds the trouble in any world. Somehow he sensed 
it had been the unwholesome influence of this woman 
and the Mrs. Trent from whom she was inseparable, 
that had brought about his own loss. It took all 
his sang-froid to admit her. 

Before she greeted Hildegarde, Olga turned to 
see that the man had left the room. 

“Why do you keep him?” she asked, taking in 
as she spoke the symphony in brown and gold. 
Hilda cared a great deal for what Olga might 
think of what she wore. Even her gowns were 
gossip. 

“Michael.” 

“Um. It rather amazes me how much you take 
from Michael.” 

Hildegarde shrugged her shoulders. 

io 6 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

“After all, what would you have me do?” 

“Let the man go.” 

“What reason?” 

“Every reason. If your friends are afraid for 
their lives when he opens the door, isn’t that 
enough?” 

“Why are you afraid? What does he do?” 

“His eyes. They were like slits of burning coal 
today. He knows more than you think he does. 
And there’s always—Arachne—and the thing that 
happened after. I tell you he holds us responsible.” 

“Nonsense,” but Hilda’s hand trembled as she 
fingered the jewelled dagger on her desk. “That 
was long ago. He’s forgotten.” 

“Other people have not conveniently butterfly 
minds like your own, my darling. What was the 
creature’s name? The one that went.” 

“Hana. That’s it. The papers were full up I 
remember. Well, if he were mine I for one 
wouldn’t have him about.” She took a cigarette 
from the crystal box nearby and sank her velveted 
self into a chaise-longue. 

“Michael seemed to think it was more or less our 
fault the thing happened,” said Hilda holding out 
a match to Olga, then lighting her own cigarette. 
“Most men would let it go at the Jap’s own indis¬ 
creet being where he had no right to be. But 
Michael’s not like most men. He’s quixotic. If 
we were to blame, we pay the penalty in keeping 
the creature about.” 

107 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“I should think he’d be as obnoxious to Michael 
as to you.” 

“Oh, poor old Michael hated it more than I at 
first. But then there was the affair of the woman. 
The only thing the papers got was that a servant 
in our house, the butler’s wife, went away and could 
not be found. Of course the silly detectives tried 
to make it appear that she was a thief. They 
never got at the truth. Michael discharged the 
man that very night. He’d neglected some work 
he ought to have done, and was impertinent about 
it. Whatever he said to Michael, it must have been 
pretty serious for him to have been discharged. 
That night his wife ran away. I never told you 
what happened. Michael made it emphatic we were 
not to speak about it, but it’s so long ago it doesn’t 
matter now. She dropped a baby’s shoe at the 
front door in her flight-” 

“Oh—he-! I begin to see. Aiachne’s lec¬ 
ture-” 

“Just so. I think the girl was about fifteen. They 
marry early in Japan. Well, her husband had re¬ 
morse when he found out, begged to be kept on, 
said Hana was too young to know where to look 
for him if she wanted to come back, and all that. 
So he’s been kept on probation. But she’s never 
showed up.” 

“Um. Rather a patristic thing all round. Eh, 
what?” 

“Rather. He’s on my nerves, though. Blames 

108 





JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

me. I can see that. But he’s too clever to do any¬ 
thing that might lead to Michael’s sending him 
away.” 

Silently the door swung open. Hard topaz glint¬ 
ing through closed lids. 

“Luncheon is served.” 

Joan being nowhere visible, Hildegarde walked 
over to the conservatory, followed by curious Olga, 
when suddenly from under the palm trees arose a 
volley of violence shouted in an unknown tongue. 
Joan scurried out into the dining room as fast as 
her small feet would carry her. At sight of Mrs. 
Clavering’s red-lipped whitened face, she stopped, 
uncertain. 

“It’s all right, Joan. This is Mrs. Clavering, a 
—friend of your mother’s. What’s the row?” 

“Oh, Judy! How could he? He never did be¬ 
fore.” There were startled tears in her eyes and 
her heart beat fast. Then she remembered to dip 
her little dip to the guest, though she was curi¬ 
ously unlike any friend of her mother’s she had 
ever seen. 

“He always swears at me in Portuguese. Those 
who know have said it was that. But never since 
Joan came. I don’t understand it,” puzzled Hilde¬ 
garde. 

“Thee and me, too much for the bird,” drawled 
Olga. “What started the uncanny creature?” 

“I don’t know. I reely don’t know. I let the 
puppies home when Matsu’ said lunch. Judy’d been 

109 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


reading my letter. I’d just said, when Raphy came 
home I’d be gone to Carmel. The door opened, 
an’ he dropped the letter he’d been reading, and I 
saw his eyes turn pinker than ever before, an’ you 
came in an’ he yelled.” 

“Draw the glass doors closed, Matsuo.” Then 
as they sat down Hilda turned to Mrs. Clavering: 

“I never could endure that sinister chuckling. He 
does it when I’m about, and usually when he’s angry. 
I always upset him. But then, I hate him.” 

“They know, children, birds and beasts. By the 
way, how long?” 

“Soon.” 

“What’s up? Thought its people were away.” 

Joan tried to hide the burning cheeks in close 
attention to the lace pattern of the tablecloth. Why 
wasn’t the grown-up code the same as for children? 

“Joining them. Be careful. It’s rather bright. 
Freer after, with the coffee. Dyin’ to hear about 
Diana.” 

“Oh, that! She looked forty.” 

“Why?” 

“Make-up.” 

“Need it?” 

“Apparently. Too thin. Henna’d her hair.” 

“That’s the last thing she needed to touch. Spun 
gold.” 

“Experiment probably.” 

“Did you speak to her?” 

“Yes. Tried to avoid me.” 


IIO 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 

“Wonder why they separated after the first year, 
she and Larry?” 

“Never knew. I saw her twice. First time 
seemed recklessly happy. It was just after she left 
him. I ran into her on the avenue. She’d Just 
begun the make-up, looked fairly pretty. Not that 
she needed it, not as I need it, and Hazel. We 
do. Not you, Hilda. Don’t ever. Ruins the skin.” 

“What did you talk about?” 

“Nothings. Plays, clothes. Started on the opera, 
but she stopped that.” 

“Wouldn’t think she had so much feeling. Law¬ 
rence Minton adored the opera. But I don’t think 
she understood it any more than she understood 
him.” 

“I don’t know. I asked her to dine, but she said, 
no, thanks. Gave no reason. That night Hazel 
saw her at a cabaret with Kendall Ashton.” 

“Well, what of that?” 

“Nothing, except that Larry had always hated 
him. Several nights later Hazel saw them again. 
Pretty much the same she said, Diana looking lovely 
and reckless. Then she went abroad.” 

“Around the world, I heard.” 

“Yes. I didn’t see her for two years, anyway, 
till last week.” 

“Where?” 

“She was coming out of Best’s. She got into a 
car. 

“Her car, d’you suppose?” 

111 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Suppose so. Wasn’t a taxi. There was a child 
in it.” 

“That’s curious.” 

“Funny-looking child. I asked her if it was 
hers.” 

“Nerve, old sport.” 

“She looked at me, ’pon my soul she looked at 
me as if I were a joke, and said, ‘yes, and no. So 
long, Olga.’ Then she laughed, and I somehow 
didn’t like the sound of it.” 

They had forgotten Joan as completely as if she 
were not at the table. In the slight silence that 
followed, reminded by mention of a child, that the 
boy she longed to know might soon come home, 
she said in her most polite conversational way: 

“Raphy is coming home too late for me to see 
him.” 

“Bless me! So there you are! Who’s Raphy?” 

“Why, didn’t you know? Raphy is Aunt Hilda’s 
little boy.” 

“What’s in her head now?” 

“Oh, it’s Michael’s-” 

“Pardon, madam, the telephone-” 

“I am at lunch, Matsuo.” 

“Shall I answer it, madam?” 

“Call Lizette.” 

“Yes, madam.” 

She thought it curious she had not heard the tele¬ 
phone bell ring. Michael had had one installed in 
the conservatory because people invariably rang him 

112 




JOAN IN RESIDENCE 


up while he was at the table, and some of them 
could not be put off. Lizette must have been close 
by, for Matsuo returned to the dining-room before 
Hilda had had time to answer Mrs. Clavering’s 
question. All unconscious, Joan prattled on: 

“I have Mickey to play with, but Raphy must 
play alone because Romilda’s school closes later 
than his. Romilda is his little neighbour. She is 
at Eden Hall. But you know, Aunt Hilda, it won’t 
be so bad since Judy came home from the country. 
He’ll have my sweet puppies. But don’t you think 
it’s a pity there aren’t any other children?” 

“I might as well tell you now as later. It’s all 
nonsense—a play of-” 

Crash! Down behind her chair, Matsuo, per¬ 
fection of butlers, the silent one, the well-trained 
one, dropped a priceless bowl of fruit. Could con¬ 
centrated fury kill, he would have fallen lifeless 
where he stood. 

“Serve the coffee in the library,” Mrs. Crighton 
said, rising, quite forgetting Joan, who had done her 
childish best to entertain the guest and help the 
party along. It was always a party at home, even 
if there were only one guest. Now, she stood aside 
unheeded while the man held the door open. Mrs. 
Clavering passed on ahead. Matsuo, a moment 
alone with Mrs. Crighton, murmured: 

“I am sorry, madam. It was an accident.” 

He spoke to ears deafened with rage. An acci¬ 
dent? Matsuo? She saw perfectly through the 

ii3 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


false telephone message. There had been no mes¬ 
sage. Joan! She was not to be disillusioned. Even 
the servants appeared to have received orders. 
Why? Because of Faith’s child. What had she, 
Hilda, Michael’s wife, done, that all the world 
should have leagued against her? 

What had she done? throbbed the thing that had 
been conscience. Had she not emptied Michael’s 
house of the joy of life? Had she not driven one 
poor stranger in her land to an unknown fate, be¬ 
cause of her selfish whim? Had she not taken on 
her restless, worldly shoulders a responsibility whose 
right belonged to no less a One than God? Why 
should Michael not have raised what happiness he 
could so innocently, so whimsically, out of the ship¬ 
wreck she would have made of his life? Why should 
he not have used what Jack Desmond called a 
“mind-messenger” to evoke the playmate she, his 
wife, had denied him? Not only that. She had 
taken all he had to give, all, grasping at it. And, 
doing so, refused to share his thoughts, his amuse¬ 
ments, to take any interest in his candlestick-making. 
She even denied him her own companionship in the 
things that mattered, giving it instead to people like 
this very Olga Clavering and her unhealthy kind. 

At least, the child was going. And Michael must 
discharge this man. It was intolerable he should 
remain. 

Olga’s question as to who Raphy might be was 
never answered, for the very good reason that Hil- 

114 


JOAN IN RESIDENCE 


degarde was afraid. Perhaps not so much afraid 
of what Michael might do, as of the Oriental mind 
that seemed to seep through every obstacle and 
reach her innermost consciousness. 

Tree of the knowledge of evil was deep-rooted 
in her soul, and Paradise choked out. 


CHAPTER VII 


A RIDDLE 

I T was late that evening before Michael came 
in. Work on the Lady Chapel was almost 
finished. He had stayed to watch the installation of 
the vast lacy grille that extended across the width 
of the nave and threw the whiteness of walls and 
pillasters into delicate relief. Even he who had con¬ 
ceived the thought of this grille, marvelled at its 
finished beauty. His own conception? Michael 
had smiled. When he said, “Master,, make me an 
instrument to Thy will,” he knew that whatever 
the achievement, it would be the Master’s work, 
not his. There was no false vanity about Michael. 
If the Master had given him light, strength, will and 
the inspiration necessary, he thanked Him, that was 
all. But Michael loved his work, and rejoiced in the 
doing of it. 

Only had he a son to follow and continue! Hil- 
degarde, she who should have stood at his side, her 
hand in his to do the Creator’s will, had elected in¬ 
stead to stand in his way. If the son her husband 
longed for had been, she might have advanced other 
than she had, into a Hildegarde softened and mel¬ 
lowed by motherhood. Would she? She refused to 

116 


A RIDDLE 


belong even to the army of childless mothers to 
whom God’s poor are child. Why bother with the 
lonely? Why bother with children at all? 

In the tempestuous springtime of his marriage, if 
Michael had only realized that he was taking unto 
himself incarnate egoism, he might have drawn 
back or at least made clear to Hildegarde that such 
was not his way, his Christian way. He had not 
known, nor did he yet realize; he was to learn it all 
—learn it this night. Unfortunately he had forgot¬ 
ten they were dining out. 

“Madam is dressing. She left word the car 
would be here at eight.” 

It was now a quarter before the hour. He would 
have to hurry, but what of Joan, eager to speak to 
him? 

“Miss Joan?” 

“She had to be put to bed, sir. She was very 
excited all afternoon, a little feverish. She had 
not left the conservatory at all.” 

“So no one took her out?” 

“Her nurse is ill, sir.” 

“There were no orders for anyone else?” 

“None, sir. I was to watch her from time to 
time. She played with the bird. It was Katie put 
her to bed.” 

Reversing the usual order, Hildegarde came down 
first. 

“Awfully sorry, dear,” said Michael as he 
stooped to kiss her. “I had forgotten all about the 

117 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Stanleys. But I’m glad you wore that dress. It’s 
beautiful enough to make me forget the iron grille 
that kept me so late.” 

Tired Michael, rushed to death, weary body and 
soul, seeking to please her. But Hilda might have 
been a discontented sphinx for all the expression 
in her face. He would have had to seek far to give 
her any pleasure tonight. 

“It’s all annoying. I loathe the dress, but it was 
less trouble to put it on once Lizette had laid it out 
than to tell her to throw it in the fire.” 

The pearls that swung to her breast, a single per¬ 
fect string, the jewelled wreath that crowned her 
head, were Michael’s gifts. Everything she had, 
Michael had given her. But it would not have 
been Hildegarde to think of this. 

It might have been balm to his tired spirit to 
tell her of his success in finding some ravishing 
pieces of marble for the altar from the discarded 
ambones of an ancient church in the demolishing, 
to describe the sable laciness that blended so com¬ 
pletely with the amber, blue and ruby of the re- 
splendant windows and developed the loveliness of 
the Lady Chapel in all completeness. 

The high grille with its imposing gates made of 
Mary’s shrine an intimate and blessed place where 
one might shut oneself away from all the world and 
find peace, close to the Mother of the Holy of 
Holies. 

He would have loved to tell Hilda all this, 

118 


A RIDDLE 

and to have Hilda understand. But—what was the 
use ? 

Frigid, silent, her cloak drawn as far as possible 
from him, she sat in the corner of the car. Futile, 
hopeless, useless, soulless! 

While Michael in his own unconscious way was 
daily filling his mind with treasure, he gave his in¬ 
dustry in all unselfishness for whosoever’s life or 
vision might touch his work. To the depth of his 
understanding he had caught each phase of the tal¬ 
ents God had given him. In mediaeval research he 
had found not only marble and stone and bronze, 
pigment and plaster, but had absorbed in vibrant 
volume the sober melody of plain chant and steeped 
his artistry in Gregorian harmonies that spell prayer 
to a listening world. 

He longed to tell Hildegarde his dream that some 
day this very chapel’s aisle would vibrate to the up¬ 
lifting sweetness of a thousand voices blended in 
sacred unison. So might he have shared the filling 
of his life with her. So might he have led her into 
the holy joy of it. 

Not Hilda. Headstrong, uncontrolled of heart, 
ungovernable of brain she would be to Michael only 
what pleased her vapid self. And he was begin¬ 
ning to see she knew how much she hurt him. Had 
she not known, it would not have mattered—much. 
But with the passion of a small nature she did know, 
and it pleased her to know. That in his selfless 
love he had given all he had and would have given 

119 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


more; had borne her taunts and narrowness in si¬ 
lence with resignation, determined to endure to the 
end, now weighed nothing against the fact that he 
kept Matsuo on. And this, the only request he 
made. The man’s presence in the house was a hu¬ 
miliation to her. True, before today she had 
thought nothing of it, but with the assistance of 
Olga Clavering Hildegarde had discovered how 
greatly it mattered. 

It never entered her calculation that the pres¬ 
ence of the Japanese in the house had been part 
of Michael’s patient cross. Nor did she reflect that 
it was because she herself had acted in direct oppo¬ 
sition to his wish, Hana and the unborn child 
had drifted out—where? If, since today Matsuo’s 
presence had become obnoxious to her, it had all 
along been trebly hateful to Michael. But he had 
taken on himself atonement for her fault and had 
not complained. 

Some of this crept into his mind as they drove 
along in silence, but he brushed these thoughts 
aside. Hildegarde could not have realized, so 
he justified her wrongdoing, knowing perfectly 
well in his subconscious mind it was but justifi¬ 
cation. 

When he held out his hand to help her from 
the car she drew away, and still silent, walked be¬ 
fore him up the stairs into the brilliantly lighted 
drawing-room. 

A moment after greeting his hostess, Michael to 

120 


A RIDDLE 


his intense pleasure looked into the surprising tyes 
of Kathleen Van Dysart. 

“I thought you were in Rome,” he said. 

“We were. Didn’t you get Van’s cable?” 

“No! When did you land?” 

“Yesterday. We cabled before we even secured 
our passage.” 

“I hope I’m near you at all events. Let me see, 
perhaps I take you out.” 

He opened the little envelope. Mrs. Stanley, 
his hostess. 

“We’ll manage somehow perhaps afterwards,” 
then, “I must speak a welcome to Van.” 

But he found himself next to Kathleen on his 
other side, and his weariness fell away. Seeing his 
hostess engrossed with the man on her left Michael 
turned to her. 

“I thought you were to be in Rome until Easter.” 

“Rent. Taxes,” Kathleen laughed. 

“I see. Sorry to come away?” 

“Frightfully, though we stayed till Bob finished 
his study of the last San Clemente excavations.” 

“Good. We’ll need them, I know. Rome much 
changed?” 

“Dreadfully. The worst of it is they won’t let 
you forget it has changed. But one has to close 
one’s eyes to the obvious. Underneath it is always 
—Citta Eterna.” 

“Italians always have had a way of covering mas¬ 
terpieces with paint,” murmured Michael. 

I 2 I 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“That’s just it. Trams and dust and hundreds 
of motor cars on streets too narrow for them, thou¬ 
sands of tourists-” 

“Millions of profiteers-” 

“Yes, and the people who made our Rome dearly 
beloved on the outside, have died or gone away, 
and madness has taken hold of our generation and 
the next, but inside, Eternal it always will be. Oh, 
Michael, if I could only tell you a little of how 
much I love it, it might ease the pain of having had 
to leave it!” 

“You never do—really. It’s in the blood once 
one has lived there. How does Bob feel about it?” 

“He says if we don’t go back to live he will take 
us all there to die,” Kathleen laughed. 

“Cheerful beggar. But I’ve so much the same feel¬ 
ing about it that literally I have to keep Rome out 
of my head.” 

“Bob insists that to die in Rome is far more in¬ 
teresting than to live anywhere else. But really 
we’ve only come to settle our affairs, and hope to 
go back next winter. To tell you the truth we’ve 
entered Babs at the Trinita and have got an archae- 
ologistic English tutor for Robbie.” 

“They’re not old enough for all that?” 

“No. They’re only babies. But I want to keep 
Robbie out of doors, and the tutor’s a dear and 
can wander with him over each of the seven hills. 
He can learn so much from the ground up that way, 
things not in books. And he can breathe the air. 

122 




A RIDDLE 


There’s a mine of wonder-lore in breathing Roman 
air. 

“Early Christian courage?” 

“Just that.” 

“And what is your ambition for Robbie after the 
palaces of the Caesars and the Mammertine?” 

“Downside.” 

“Then?” 

“Silly Michael! Our only ambition for him then 
is candlestick making with you.” 

“That’s a pretty compliment, Kathleen. I 
won’t forget it. I believe if you and Bob will take 
me on I’d like to enlist as the boy’s tutor now. 
I’ve always had a haunting love for catacombs and 
ruins.” 

“Withal a house on Fifth Avenue and an official 
studio on Stuyvesant Square?” 

“Urn! ‘From our dead selves to higher things.’ 
There’s always hope.” 

“Turn to your hostess. It’s time,” smiled Kath¬ 
leen. 

“Yes. Just a minute. I say, do something for 
me ?” 

“Anything. What is it?” 

“When I come back, just remind me. Say, ‘I’ve 
got an English tutor for Robbie.’ Will you do 
that?” 

“I will, indeed.” 

Then she turned to her other neighbour with a 
question about the Russian players. She had seen 

123 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


some of them in Paris and wondered how they would 
succeed in America. 

“Tell me, Mr. Crighton,” it was the deep voice 
of his hostess penetrating to the far end of the 
room, “how is your altar coming on? I hear it is 
the most beautiful one in the United States.” 

“That’s a tremendous exaggeration. It is fin¬ 
ished, but it’s only a chapel altar. One can’t com¬ 
pare it with the larger altars in cathedrals and 
churches. I myself think the finest piece of church 
architecture in New York is your own reredos at 
Saint Thomases, even if you do borrow our saints,” 
he laughed with the twinkle in his eyes that Joan 
loved. In his simplicity he never dreamed that his 
hostess who had bid her lion to dine was now about 
to put him through his tricks. 

“Do we? Well, I suppose saints belong to the 
world, don’t they? Tell me all about your windows. 
They say they are as beautiful as the windows of 
Chartres, and that the grille with the great gates 
was your own idea.” 

“The windows were done in our own country. 
At least the war brought out the unexpected possi¬ 
bilities of the United States.” 

“Who was the genius that made the glass, 
though?” 

“It is Irish glass. I think they come as closely 
to the colorings in the French cathedrals as any in 
the world. Yes, the workmen are in America. You 
know some of the finest English porcelains are made 

124 


A RIDDLE 


with English clay, by English labor just outside of 
Philadelphia. We are a wonderful people, Mrs. 
Stanley!” 

“Yes, I believe so. I came across some ancient 
Italian Renaissance chairs mellowing into antiquity 
just outside of Boston.” 

Through the general laugh that followed, Michael 
heard a gentle voice beside him, murmuring: 

“We’ve got an English tutor in Rome for Rob¬ 
bie.” 

“No! Why English?” as the conversation swung 
to his left, on whether or not it were proper to in¬ 
ject a touch of Romanism into a conception other¬ 
wise wholly Gothic. 

“Why not?” 

“Why not, indeed? All this to help me out of a 
difficulty. I’ve been keenly interested in all you tell 
me about Robbie because I’ve got to get my boy 
out of the country. I must get him so far away that 
he can only be reached by letters, cables or radio. 
How would it do if I sent him to join you in Rome 
next winter? Or would you enter him at Down¬ 
side?” 

Kathleen, bewildered, looked into her neighbour’s 
eyes and seeing him calm and apparently sane, asked: 

“H—how old is he?” 

“Eight,” Michael answered unflinchingly. 

“W-why do you send him away?” 

“For fear Joan Desmond will discover the truth.” 

“My dear friend, am I mad? Or you? Put your 

125 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

cards on the table. Faces up, please. Why 

Joan?” 

“Didn’t you know she had been with us all win¬ 
ter?” 

“Yes, but what has that to do with your s-son?” 

“Well, really,” he looked bewildered, “I don’t 
quite know, except that the boy, Raphael, imaginary 
you know, but quite real, oh, quite real, has made 
a dream playmate for Joan. She doesn’t know he’s 
only a fancy of my own. Unless I send him out of 
the country she’s going to demand his bodily pres¬ 
ence, and,” he added helplessly, “1 don’t know 
what to do about it.” Kathleen broke into a silvery 
laugh. 

“Michael, Michael, how like you! What does 
Hilda say? Tell me how it happened.” 

He launched into the story of Joan’s coming, and 
how, when he found the dogs and bird would not 
quite satisfy her play days, it occurred to him to 
let her into his secret. In his mind he had builded 
a son, Raphael, who was going to be the most won¬ 
derful of architects when grown, but who for the 
present was away at school. He must remain where 
he was until well into June. 

“Sometimes I’ve been worried at the child’s im¬ 
plicit belief in what I tell her. And sometimes— 
it’s not all smooth sailing.” 

Inadvertently Kathleen’s eyes wandered to Hilde- 
garde’s face, colder, icier, than she had ever seen it. 

“Some day you will have to tell the child the truth. 

126 


A RIDDLE 

If you don’t, she’ll find it out for herself, and it’s 
going to hurt.” 

“I’ve thought of that. But by that time, Prince 
Charming will have come. She will not have to 
wait long, little Joan. And as far as the fairy story 
goes, all children love fairy tales—this one is a little 
more real, that’s all. So where’s the harm?” 

“No harm, Michael, but some danger. How do 
you know Joan won’t make a Prince Charming out 
of the ideal you’ve set up?” 

“Brava! Why not, indeed? Perfect ideals 
sometimes save people from accepting anything less. 
Besides,” here he fell into the little confidential way 
he kept for those who knew him best and loved him 
for it, “I think in my heart I’ve grown too fond of 
the boy to let him go. I’ve—I’ve a whole drawer 
full of drawings of what he would have been.” 

It was in her to say “poor Michael,” but he 
would not have liked it. 

“Men don’t play with dolls, even imaginary ones,” 
she said instead. 

The whimsical look that was never far away 
danced into Michael’s eyes. 

“Picture painters, sculptors, writers, music makers 
and candlestick makers play with illusions, don’t 
they? We’re not a bit practical people, you know, 
Kathie. The illusions of the man in the street and 
the man on Wall street, are lost along with his first 
glimpse behind the scenes of how motion pictures 
are made. That was an awful blow to me when I 

127 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


found it out. They’d been magic before. We, Pan¬ 
taloons and Columbines, joy makers for the world, 
cherish our fantasies till old age breaks us along with 
them.” 

A voice on his left broke into his thought: 

“Did I hear you speak of lost illusions?” 

“Yes, dear lady, of those chimeras a material 
world might classify as profitless hallucinations.” 

“What do you believe of them?” 

“One of the greatest charms in life.” 

“But they disappear with childhood.” 

“Do they? I wonder. Perhaps they do. Some 
childhood, but not all.” 

“The age of visionaries is past, Mr. Crighton. 
Life is a practical thing.” 

“What a pity!” Michael was hardly conscious 
that he spoke aloud. 

“What a pity the beautiful things of life, dreams, 
traditions, adventure, illusory germs of fairy-tale- 
dom must be pushed aside for what? L T nlovely 
naked facts of an existence ponderous, weighty, ma¬ 
terial. Not much more!” 

“But you will admit that without these things 
there could be no progress?” 

“I will only admit that there can be no progress 
without imagination. It is not when a man sits down 
and admits a fact, that the world progresses. It is 
when he lets his mind venture out of the circum¬ 
scribed area of what is, to what might be, that prog¬ 
ress springs ahead. I’ve watched to see the thing 

128 


A RIDDLE 


people do with their illusions. Some men bum 
theirs. That’s when the will wars against the spirit. 
You and I call it conscience. Some women lose 
theirs, and w r hen they do, the angels weep. xAnd 
some men and women, the ones who have learned 
that ‘Unless ye become as little children ye cannot 
enter into the kingdom of Heaven,' keep theirs to 
the end. They are the lucky ones, the ones about 
whom people say, so-and-so has never lost his youth. 
It depends, I think, on how one lives and what in¬ 
tensity one carries into the living.” 

“Is there such a thing as intensity in life, any 
more ?” 

The question came from the man on Mrs. Stan¬ 
ley’s left. Once he had been Hazel Trent’s hus¬ 
band.” 

“What about the war, Trent?" Michael knew 
the man so well he did not hesitate to ask the ques¬ 
tion. Somewhere, in what had been a life, a Dis¬ 
tinguished Service Cross had been tossed into the 
discard. 

“Oh, that! That’s different. It was all in every 
man’s day’s w'ork.” 

“Every man’s intense day’s work, old man. There 
were no illusions about the country’s patriotism. 
Fact, I grant you. But what made it a fact? Ideal¬ 
ism. America was to stand for the best. Nothing 
less would satisfy.” 

“It's all over and done with now, though.” 

“Is it? There’s been a child born out of the 

129 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

fancies and dreams we’ve all had since the war, 
Trent.” 

“What dreams?” 

“Dreams of what might be done to make our 
country what it should be now that the war’s well 
over.” 

“What child?” 

“Hope. A good thing, believe me.” 

“I suppose you’re right, Crighton, though even 
hope, once dead, can’t be reborn.” 

“The Phoenix died, and its ashes were cold and 
white. Yet in five hundred years it rose out of dead 
ashes into its Heliopolis young and beautiful. Only 
one must have patience.” 

“It’s all right for you, Michael, all you have to 
do is to dream a thing, then go ahead and make 
it. We’re not all built that way.” 

“Utter nonsense, man. It takes more than mere 
imagination to create a monument. Today one is 
inclined to forget there’s another Power. Without 
the Hand that builded man, man’s hand could never 
build. Nor without the Mind that first created 
hope. I like to think that life’s discouragements 
are not sufficiently forceful to kill the fantasies that 
keep man’s mind afloat above the sordid stream 
that somehow threatens us today—everywhere.” 

“The things that interest you do, Michael,” said 
Kathleen. 

“They help.” He looked to where Hilda glit¬ 
tered and shone at her end of the table.” 

130 


A RIDDLE 


Mrs. Stanley rose. 

As Kathleen passed him on her way to the draw¬ 
ing-room, Michael stopped her. 

“I say, Kathie, unless Hilda should bring up the 
subject of—Raphael, I wouldn’t speak of him. But 
—she just may, you know.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

NO ANCHOR? 

I CILY regular, splendidly null,” Hildegarde 
floated back to the car. Michael essayed to 
break the silence that fell again as soon as the 
door was closed and they started towards Fifth 
Avenue. 

“Rather nice to see Kathleen and old Bob again. 
Bob’s amusing over his financial difficulties. Did 
you talk to him at all?” 

“Yes, a little.” 

“Tough, having to leave Rome when they’d just 
gotten their bearings.” 

“Think so?” 

“Rather. It would be hard to uproot us at this 
season there. May is divinely lovely in Rome.” 

“Too hot. They’d been there all winter, any¬ 
way. Must have been bored to death. Why not 
have moved on?” 

“Why not have stayed? It appears the children 
adored it.” 

“They have to drag their anchors about with 
them wherever they go. Might as well come home.” 

Michael thought a moment before he spoke. For 
the life of him he could not help saying: 

I3 2 


NO ANCHOR? 


“But we would have had no anchors.’’ 

“No, thank God for that.” 

What was the use? The perversion of Hilda’s 
mind rushed around itself, a tiny maelstrom. When 
had she not managed to twist her half-truths 
in such a way as to form complete self-justification? 
Now she thanked God for the very thing she had 
contrived to preclude Providence from bringing 
about. What was the exact phrase? “Whited sep¬ 
ulchres, beautiful without, but within full of dead 
men’s bones and all corruption.” It was not the 
first time the hideous picture had come to Michael’s 
mind only to be driven away with the violence of 
his loyalty. It was Hildegarde who had spoken, 
his Hilda. He must not forget that. 

Once in the house where the light fell full on her 
face, he saw a change in it, an expression new to 
her. In no way did it alter the icy regularity of 
it. It simply made him want to look away. 

“Please dismiss Matsuo for the night. There’s 
something I’ve got to speak to you about.” 

He did as she asked, then followed to the library 
where she had, consciously or unconsciously placed 
herself under a portrait that had been done of her 
the year of her marriage. 

It was much the same Hildegarde, but younger, 
and touched with the genius of an artist who had 
drawn a soul in place of an ego, and painted into 
eyes and mouth a wistful sweetness that had never 
been. If Michael in blind simplicity had thought 

133 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


them to be his wife, he was neither blind enough, 
nor simple enough tonight to hold them among the 
illusions that had survived. 

“What is it, dear? Sit down. Let me get you 
a cigarette.” 

“I’m not smoking.” 

“Won’t whatever it is keep till morning? You 
must be very tired.” 

“When are you ever in when I come down? You 
are always gone.” 

“That’s so.” 

He lighted a cigarette for himself, then said: 

“Sit down, then, while I smoke mine, dear.” But 
with her back to the mantlepiece she stood facing 
him. 

“You must discharge Matsuo, tomorrow.” 

“Don’t let’s go into that again. You know my 
reasons for keeping him.” 

“My reasons for sending him away are bet¬ 
ter.” 

“You know—I feel that we were responsible 


“Oh, that! That’s finished. I refuse to have 
him about. Twice today he forgot himself. It was 
at lunch and Olga was there. Olga talks. The 
story is probably all over town by now.” 

“Why, dear, of course I’ll speak to him. He will 
not do whatever he did again. What was it?” 

“He put that child at the table with us to begin 
with. Her nurse being ill, some one had to look 

134 



NO ANCHOR? 


after her. A servant would have done. But In 
his Oriental mind I appear to have been the one 
who should do it. Such a person hasn’t the right 
even to think. 

“Then the child began an idiotic chatter about 
our imaginary son. Naturally Olga asked who in 
blazes she was talking about. The Jap pretended 
some one called me on the telephone, though he 
knows I never speak to anyone at lunch time or 
dinner.” 

“Then?” 

“He dropped a Ming bowl filled with fruit 
on the floor. It crashed and made a mess. I won’t 
stand for it. The child is going. That’s one bless¬ 
ing. And I tell you I won’t stand for your tales 
about an imaginary son. I’ve stood just about 
enough.” 

Michael smoked on without a word. Had Hilde- 
garde known where to stop, something might have 
been done. But her kind never does know. The 
concentrated fury that had been smouldering for 
years at her empty breast, burst into flame, gather¬ 
ing heat as it rose. 

“Steady, old girl,” said Michael once, trying to 
stem the blazing stream. “Let it all wait till tomor¬ 
row. I’ll not go out till you are ready even if you 
don’t come down till night. We can lunch quietly 
somewhere, anywhere you say, and talk it all over 
afterwards.” 

The more self-control Michael exerted, the more 

135 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


infuriated she became. There was venom in her 
expression when she answered: 

“No! Here and now you are to make your 
choice. If the man stays, I go. You will stop 
this affair of Raphael or I shall shout it from the 
housetops.” 

“Would that help?” 

“It would put a stop to all this nonsense.” 

“Would you shout the reason why?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Please sit down.” He pulled a comfortable 
chair forward. “I really can’t talk to you while 
you stand there. That’s better, Hilda.” 

“Thank you,” she snapped, every nerve and mus¬ 
cle taut. She was determined to have it out if it 
took all night. 

“We’ll begin with Matsuo. No one can do a 
wrong thing and get away with it, eventually,” said 
Michael. “It only happens that his punishment 
came early in the day.” 

“There’s another point of view. It’s not like 
you not to be just. There was no crime in his go¬ 
ing to a lecture about which he had heard us speak. 
There was distinct disobedience in his leaving the 
house that day. There was disrespect in following 
where I took my guests. But though he should have 
been discharged then and there I see no reason 
why high Heaven should punish him.” 

“Logical from your standpoint. The thing goes 
deeper than you know, far deeper than I know. 

136 


NO ANCHOR? 


I’m trying to be fair. He had not the right to leave 
the house, I grant you. We were not responsible 
for that. But we were responsible in that through 
our carelessness, our heedlessness, our want of con¬ 
sideration, he learned the existence of the most de¬ 
grading practice ever perpetrated by man or devil. 
I’ve questioned him, and have learned a great deal. 
The printed notices that found their way into our 
house were left about for those who ran, to read. 
I’ve destroyed them myself when I’ve found them. 
His curiosity was excited by what he heard that 
day at your luncheon. He frankly admitted he 
was not free to tell me why he followed you, but 
said that some day, perhaps, he would make it clear. 
That is why I say there is something about it we 
don’t see. His wife pleaded with him not to go. 
She had every reason for his not going. She knew 
him. But because of you, because I somehow could 
not bear to have him in the house with you—after¬ 
wards—I discharged him. As you know, it’s an 
old story, he pleaded to stay. There were reasons 
I preferred not to tell you at the time, reasons I 
had for keeping him on. I may as well tell you 
now. The little wife, Hana, was only fifteen years 
old, and might come back like a frightened child 
to find him. What you did not know was that with 
the Japanese, a final code is suicide. I wanted to 
avoid that.” 

“Meanwhile exposing your wife to the constant 
humiliation of his presence.” 

137 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“It has not worried you before today, Hilda. 
Why? Did you think of humiliation when you de¬ 
liberately put yourself in the place of the man in 
the street? Matsuo was not the only one who saw 
you at Arachne’s. 

“The world was not only free to go, but encour¬ 
aged to go—and learn. Time was when the woman 
would have been arrested or deported. Our censor¬ 
ship”—he laughed—“would be a joke if it were 
not one of America’s tragedies. It unfortunately 
does not extend to the elimination of moral degra¬ 
dation. We in America today, kill our delicate and 
infirm, our own mothers sometimes, by depriving 
them of wine. Our divine Jesus Christ performed 
a miracle that the people might have it. We kill 
the body with our so-called reform. But we see 
fit to murder body and soul broadcast, closing puri¬ 
tanical, hypocritical eyes to real crime. Heaven 
help us in the future if it goes on.” 

Hildegarde was silent for a moment, but not im¬ 
pressed. She was gathering argument on her own 
side, and had probably not even heard what Michael 
had said. 

“Hana is probably dead or in Japan. Your rea¬ 
sons for keeping him are utterly futile. I’ve endured 
him too long. I won’t have him in the house 
another day.” 

“Still it’s taken you till today to decide.” 

“That’s my affair.” 

“Wait, dear, let me think things out a bit.” 

138 


NO ANCHOR? 


Too strong of character to be unyielding, he was 
entirely fair and just, Hildegarde to the contrary. 
It had been far worse for him than for her, to en¬ 
dure the sight of the Japanese about her after what 
had happened. Today she had been humiliated by 
his imperfect service. The man had put himself in 
the place of master. That was not fair to Hilde¬ 
garde. Why had he done it? To save the child, to 
save Joan from an awakening that would have dis¬ 
tressed her. Only that? To save Michael, too. But 
the hurt had been to Hilda. How make it easier 
for her without compromising with conscience ? Then 
the answer came. 

“I see my way now, dear old lady. We’ll get 
someone in his place here. You need not see him 
again. After all, he’s really not a butler. He knows 
everything there is to know about gardens and plant¬ 
ing. I will take him down to the studio instead of 
the men I have who know nothing about bulbs. He 
need never come to the house when you are about 
and when he does come, it will only be to the con¬ 
servatory. How would that be ?” 

Tired to death, he was still able to smile as he 
asked the question. Hilda did not see the smile. 
She only heard him say he would discharge Mutsuo. 

“That’s settled then. What about the child. I 
won’t have her about either.” 

“I’m afraid you will have to bear with her one 
more week. Then I send her out to Faith and 
Jack.” 


139 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Why tell Hildegarde how empty the house would 
seem to him after the child had gone? What would 
be the use. And yet? 

‘‘I'll sing a song of gratitude the day she leaves,” 
said Hilda as she rose and started to the door. 

“Just so that you do sing, Hilda!” 

“At all events, her going will put an end to 
that creature of your imagination. We will bury 
that ” 

“No. We will not bury that.” 

“Sorry. But I'm just as tired of Raphael as I 
am of Joan and the Jap. I won’t keep up the pre¬ 
tense and neither will you. That’s the end of that.” 
“Wait.” 

He knocked the ashes into the empty grate, then, 
quite unconscious of the expression in his eyes, 
looked at Hildegarde. He saw her distinctly, 
clearly for what she was, and the look was not pleas¬ 
ant. She saw it too, and seeing it, recoiled, ever so 
little, and pulled her wrap tight about her shoul¬ 
ders. 

“I've listened to you, and yielded where I could. 
Now you must listen to me. I should have pre¬ 
ferred not to discuss this thing tonight. But you’ve 
made further silence impossible. 

“Whatevei ambition I may have had, whatever 
longing for a Son to carry on, to be a companion for 
us both, you have prevented. The joy of watching 
the growth of soul and mind and heart and body of 
my son, you have killed. One son? I’ve dreamed of 

140 


NO ANCHOR? 


filling this emptiness with sons and daughters, liv¬ 
ing and learning, given a chance for everything 
that’s good and happy in this life, and eternal hap¬ 
piness when this life is ended. To what purpose? 
You, and those others who mean more to you than 
your own, Olga Clavering, Hazel Trent, poor 
Diana, lost through you all, and others of your 
kind, have assumed to put aside God’s ordinance 
and take up the rotten doctrine of a time-serving 
publicity agent, who hides the evil she spreads, un¬ 
der the name of ‘public benefit.’ 

“This child of my imagination was not born for 
the amusement of Faith's little girl, nor for any¬ 
thing or anyone but my own depleted heart. Ra¬ 
phael first saw light in this very room, the night 
you came home from that despicable performance 
at Town Hall. God knows to how T many you have 
lent your presence since. The boy was born then, 
and has lived to gladden me every time I have come 
home to find no other companion to welcome me, 
unless you count in the bird and dogs. You are 
more competent than anyone to tell how often that 
nas been. 

“Michael!” 

“Look.” 

Out from a drawer in his desk, he pulled a large 
portfolio worn wdth handling. He opened it. 

She did not touch the first drawing he held out to 
her. It was only a baby’s face, and hazy, with all 
the depth of the picture gathered into the eyes, big 

141 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


like her own, shaped like them, gazing straight out 
now at the mother they might have had. 

Then, one of a child perhaps three years old, with 
fair curls clustered tight to the head, not unlike 
Carl Muller’s Christ-child. There were several pic¬ 
tures of a boy of about five, but in these the eyes 
had perceptibly changed. The shape of the face 
was Hildegarde’s, the eyes still hers, but they had 
Michael’s greater strength. He must have studied 
her very closely to bring her back, like this, in min¬ 
iature. The drawings were not unlike some that 
had been done of her many years ago in Germany. 
But for all she knew they had never been brought 
to America. 

At the last, he held out two. These were done 
in color, finished to the smallest detail with the 
minute exactitude of a Vibert. He might have been 
a boy of seven or eight, and the look of Hilde- 
garde outgrown. Frank and sweet, he had an ex¬ 
pression all his own, and was not even like Michael, 
yet still Raphael, child of the earlier drawings, 
grown older, developed in his own way. 

“Changed. A great deal changed.” 

“Yes. Because we were not fit to have him even 
resemble us.” Then: 

“One of them is for Joan. The other, I keep.” 

She stood looking down at them and did not 
speak. 

“You said we had no anchors. This—has been 
my anchor oftener than you know. He stays while 

142 


NO ANCHOR? 


I stay. You see, I have no other son. That’s all. 
Going? Good night,—dear.” 

Was her hand only tired? Or did it travel over 
the boy’s face, ever so little. 

But the lips that echoed his good night were fro¬ 
zen, and she did not turn to look at him when she 
left the room. 


143 


CHAPTER IX 


ONE GOES HOME 




H 


OW long will the whizz-car take, Uncle 
Michael?” 


“About five days, altogether, I should say. 


n 


“You cornin’?” 

“Not this time, lambkin. Rhea will go with Joan. 
First you stop at Chicago, then you get another 
train that will take you far away across the desert 
to Daddy and Mummie and Mickey. How will 
that be?” 

“I want you, but,” with a little sigh, “I s’pose 
you’ve got to be home for Raphy’s holidays. I 
know he couldn’t get along without you. Of course, 
an’ Aunt Hilda. Only, she couldn’t possibly play 
with him.” 

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” ejaculated Michael, 
as if it were the moment’s inspiration. “Raphy and 
I will write to you. Then it will be almost as if he 
played with you.” 

“Oh, that will be fun! Rhea, did you hear? 
Raphy will write me a letter, an’ another, an’ an¬ 
other.” 

“Yes, Miss Joan. That will be very nice. It will 


144 


ONE GOES HOME 


help your own education to have a nicely educated 
little boy like that write to you. 

“Well, I don’t know about ed—ed-” 

“Education.” Rhea did not lose the value of a 
single syllable. Preciseness in speech was her con¬ 
ception of genteel elegance. 

“Yes, that part. But I know I’ll love hearing 
from him.” 

So with visions of Mummie and Daddy before 
her, and an idea that little lame Mickey would share 
the joy of reading letters from a far-off boy, Joan 
fared gaily with Michael and her nurse to the train. 
It was only when the train started away, and 
Michal’s brave smile dimmed a little, that a spasm 
of grief caught at the child’s heart, and she cried 
into Rhea’s precise shoulder. That Hilda with a 
game of auction going in full swing at the house 
when they left it, forgot to say goodbye, never en¬ 
tered into her thoughts. But the long journey 
with its excitement sped rapidly enough. Joan was 
tucked up in a doll’s house each night. That 
was a delight in itself, but to feel the vibration of 
the train speeding on its way, dreams keeping pace, 
to waken each morning to the thrill of watching 
one’s bed disappear by magic into the seats that 
made a playroom through the whole day was an 
experience for a life-time. 

Then there were men with black faces, called 
porters, who brought one’s meals, and did vanish¬ 
ing tricks with tables in the wall. Little did 

145 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

Aunt Hilda know what she was missing, thought 
Joan. 

It was a wonderful journey indeed, and had it 
not been for those who waited she might have 
been sorry to think it would ever come to an 
end. 

The very desert was a sandy world, peopled with 
fairy-dog prairie-dogs that lived in tiny mound 
houses, and came out and looked and laughed and 
pirouetted when the whizz-car flashed by. And one 
saw still white things not stones, that lay along the 
desert track. Sometimes they had teeth, and some¬ 
times long rows of ribs, but Rhea could not tell her 
what they were, and she did not like to ask the 
other travellers. 

At last, they came to a land where great hills, 
higher than any she had seen in her short span, 
touched silvery tops to blue skies, and other hills 
that laved their feet in bluer, restful seas. 

An onrush! Oh, to be caught in the arms of a 
strangely strong brown father! 

“Where’s Mummie? Where’s Mickey?” gur¬ 
gling with delight, looking eagerly for the 
others. 

“Wait. You’ll see. Why, who on earth can 
this be?” 

“Mickey! Mickey! Oh, where, where are 
they?” 

He knew what she meant. Her heart had 
never allowed her to believe the crutches other 

146 


ONE GOES HOME 

than as essential a part of her brother as feet and 
hands. 

“All gone, Joan. All thrown away. Look. An¬ 
other s’prise!” 

She saw her mother through a mist. This was 
a funny thing, to cry because your heart was burst¬ 
ing with happiness. But Joan cried her gladness 
over the father who had gone away pallid, and re¬ 
appeared bronzed, over Mickey who had gone away 
halting, and now was whole, over her mother, from 
whom she had been separated, to whom she was 
reunited. And the beauty of it all was that every¬ 
body understood, nobody teased, and when the tears 
turned to laughter Joan found that Mummie was 
doing something extraordinary indeed. What on 
earth could it be? She was holding something. 
What? Two little ponies, holding their heads, and 
in one hand she had a crop and Mickey had one in 
his, Mickey, who had never walked. 

No need to wait for the little riding habit laid 
out in the flower-decked room at Carmel. She was 
up and off, gasping with delight, gasping with sur¬ 
prise at Mickey’s skill and fearlessness, gasping with 
the gloried happiness that is childhood’s right and 
somehow Joan’s chief prerogative. 

So, entered she boldly, head high, joyous, eager, 
into a new phase of her life. And at the same time 
so entered she on a strange phase of existence for 
so young a child; the spirit-presence, so to speak, 
of Raphael. Raphael, phantom, Raphael, reality, 

147 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Raphael an ideal with whom to climb to girlhood, 
maidenhood, young womanhood. Woven out of 
the disenchantment of a lonely man, Raphael was 
to reawaken for Joan an adventure with each day 
and tinge the years that were ahead with fancies 
fine and true and pure, all sheathed in chivalry. 

In an era of disbelief, of iconoclysm, disingenu¬ 
ousness masking as frankness, dishonesty as breadth 
of perspective, Michael had seen ahead that unless 
Joan were shielded by ideals of the highest, there 
might be danger. What the playmate Raphael must 
eventually be to her, so must her true love be, no 
less. Not all the spurious wooing in the world 
should have power to hurt her, because of Raphael. 
She was to be taught to distinguish the tinkle of 
“sounding brass.” 

Michael himself probably could not realize the 
value of his gift to the sensitive child in the imagi¬ 
nary boy. But neither did he appreciate the full 
extent of her confidence in him. If he had he might 
have lifted the anchor gently before it should be 
ruthlessly torn from the sea of Joan's life, dragging 
with it sands and unsightly weeds. But, whether 
she was to love him more or hate him for what 
he should do, did not matter in face of the truth. 
She was to be clad in armor invincible, no shaft 
aimed lower than the height of Michael's aspira¬ 
tion for the son that should have been his could 
ever touch her. 

The cloud of dust raised by the car that sped 

148 


ONE GOES HOME 


swiftly on before them was gathered into banks of 
fog that blew from the sea like thistledown. 

“They’re forts, Mickey, strong forts. We have 
to beat them down.” 

“What’s forts?” shouted the boy as she rode 
on ahead. 

“Armed castles. See? Here’s one.” She rode 
through the mist-bank like a mermaid diving 
through a wave. 

The castle that was theirs nestled green and white 
before them, crowned and wreathed with roses 
whiter than the mists through which they’d come. 

Mummie and Daddy stood at the gate signalling 
Mickey to keep the secret he fairly yearned to tell. 
Once lifted to the ground he danced around her 
with excitement. 

She thought it was because of her coming, 
that he danced to show how the lameness had all 
gone away, so she laughed and danced about with 
him, and could hardly contain herself for delight 
when he led the way to the room made ready for 
her, roses of its own peeping from a miniature bal¬ 
cony that overlooked the sea. But when the little 
boy in his impetuosity almost jumped over the rail¬ 
ing, Faith took a hand. 

“Steady, my son,” then smiling mysteriously, “I 
don’t believe you can keep it from her any longer.” 

“What is it? Oh, what is it?” 

She tiptoed up behind her father, following his 
eyes out to a green plot where pine and palm trees 

149 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


met, and saw beyond, a narrow strip of beach not 
a hundred yards away, where waves lapped and 
gurgled to the sands. 

“Ours, too?” 

He nodded, then lifting her high in his arms, 
showered her the great surprise. 

“Why, Daddy, how is it that if it’s our little 
beach there are children playing on it?” 

“Perhaps they’ve come to play with you. 
Why, what are they doing? It looks to me like a 
fire.” 

“It’s a fire. It’s a fire,” Micked shouted. “It’s 
a brush-wood fire. I know what it is. They’re 
waving at us. They want us to come.” 

Joan, from her father’s shoulder, looked down 
at Faith. 

“Ch-children—for me to play with?” 

So her little heaven-on-earth began. And, like 
generous Joan, she would not keep it for herself. 
Uncle Michael must be told. And then—lonely 
Raphy in the big house. Raphy would soon come 
home from Canterbury and have Judy and the dogs, 
it is true. But they were not human creatures able 
to play games and do the wonderful things that are 
done by those who, when they come to earth as 
babies, carry in their eyes the very stars from 
Heaven out of which God dropped them. 

“Mummie, I w r ant to write a letter.” 

“Righto, sweetheart. To whom?” 

“Uncle Michael.” 


150 


ONE GOES HOME 


“Come along then. Get your pen. Here’s the 
paper.” 

“I like my name on the top. Looks important.” 

“Very important. But not half as important to 
you as your handwriting will seem to him, my 
lamb.” 

“Mean it, Mummie?” 

“Mummie always means everything. Now what 
are w r e going to say?” 

“I’ll say. You watch. An’ you help the spell¬ 
ing. An’ hold my hand. 

Carmel, June 1st, 19— 

Dear Uncle Michael: 

There are three children to play with on the beach, Alix 
Kent, Claire Kent, an' Donald Kaye. Donald Kaye comes 
all the way across the sea from London town. He is like 
Raphy, as I like him best. But Raphy is better than any¬ 
body, and he is ours. So sometimes I will not play with 
Donald Kaye. It might hurt Raphy if he knew. We cook 
marshmallows on the beach. I burn mine. Mummie says 
I will never be a cook. But it is fun. I have a blue room. 
Roses peep in at me from the window. They grow on a 
little porch. Mummie says I may put the leaves of one in 
this letter. Give Raphy half. Give Raphy all of them. I 
have a pony. So has Mickey. But Mickey has a cold an' 
can’t ride this week. I can ride, and so can Mickey, even 
if Mickey is only five. He can walk alone. Those sticks 
he threw away. We ride up to a big wdiite house on the 
hill. Claire and Alix live there. I love it. Some day I 
will draw a picture of it for you. An’ will draw one of this 
house for Raphy. The big house has a name, Monte Mad- 
dalena. Mummie is spelling for me an’ holding my hand 
with the pen in it. I like this house. It is very small. 

HI 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Claire’s Mummie looks like the queen in Grimm’s fairy 
tales, with the crown of gold hair on her head. But my 
Mummie looks like the Queen of Heaven. (Oh, Michael, 
Michael, how one must live one’s life, to come within a 
thousand miles of children’s thoughts who love one-!) 

Alix an’ Claire’s daddy is game. Like you, but not more 
game. You would be more game, Uncle Michael, if it 
wasn’t for the candlesticks. He is Mr. David Kent. He 
walks an’ rides all over the hills an’ the fairy queen goes 
with him. They have an Aunt. She does live most queer. 
Some day they will show her to me. I will not see her, but 
I will hear her speak. It is a convent. She sits behind a 
wall an’ Joan is to listen. She is a nun. That’s all. Good¬ 
bye. 

From 

Joan Desmond.” 


“Joan, darling.” 

“Yes, Mummie?” 

The child looked up with a sigh of contentment 
as she took the carefully written letter in her hand 
to admire it, then stared dubiously at the inkspots 
on her fingers. 

“Would you mind if I added something on the 
blank sheet you left at the back?” 

“I think I'd like it. I couldn’t think of enough 
to say to fill the paper. Will that fill it up?” 

“Yes. That will fill it up. Run along now, 
quietly, so as not to disturb Mickey. I want him 
to sleep the cold away.” 

“Kiss me before I go. There! ’Bye, Mummie.” 

“Good-bye, honey,” smiled Faith, watching her 
to the door. 


152 



ONE GOES HOME 


Michael dear, Jack’s letter goes along with this one. But 
I had to add a word on my own. The great experiment of 
leaving Joan with you was more successful than I had 
dreamed anything could be. She's not as frail as she was and 
has imbibed a large share of your resourceful imagination, 
and a decided talent for drawing anything and everything 
she sees. It’s rather wonderful for seven years. Mickey is 
coughing more than I like. But it’s only a cold and we 
will have him out in a day or two. I think we will stay 
well into October. You’ll have to do something drastic 
about your Raphael. Joan is determined to go to New Mil¬ 
ford to see him if he’s back at Canterbury when we get 
home. It must be left to your inventive genius to dispose of 
him, for he is a very real person. 

I overheard Joan tell Donald Kaye that Canterbury is 
a far better school than Downside, because if it hadn’t been, 
Raphael Crighton would have been sent to Downside. I 
wondered if it wouldn't be rather a good idea? You could 
send him over with Donald in September. The boy’s parents 
are in India till then, and consented to let the Kents have 
him through the summer. 

Sometimes I’ve wondered, and worried a little, whether 
we are wrong or right in keeping up the happy little fiction 
of Raphael ? I know how great a niche the boy fills in 
your life—and he does make our little girl somehow—happy. 

Jack’s grateful love and mine, for all you and Hilda have 
done for her> and us. God bless you always. 

Faith. 

New York, June 15th, 19— 

My Joan: 

It was a great disappointment when Raphy found you 
had gone. In fact, if it had not been for a diverting Judy, 
I believe he would have demanded the first train out to 
Carmel. When I told him about the beach, the brush-fires 
and the other children, I caught sight of a red cheek turned 

153 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


away from me. Then facing about like the soldier he is, 
he said, “It’s all right, sir. Didn’t mean to funk.” 

“What’s the trouble, old man?’ 

“Oh, nothing much. I thought Joan would be here when 
I got home, and some of the fellow’s mothers were going 
to do things for us. My own class promised to show up. 
They felt sorry about Mickey having to be away, lame and 
all that. It would have livened up the house, having them. 
But we’ll get them over anyway, sir. Won’t we? And 
what’s tO' do about it but be a sport?” 

When I told him Mickey was well, and that you had 
sent him the white rose and spoken of him, he loved it all. 
I don’t know how I’m going to tell you the rest, lambkin. 
It migh be harder if I did not know you had found play¬ 
mates at Carmel, much harder. But if only the easy things 
in life mattered, nothing would be very real. So we’re going 
to be what Raphy said, good sports. I’ve got to send him 
away, quite far. 

In the first place I had a letter from Mr. Hume, telling 
me the drawing master was having trouble with my boy, 
not that he would not draw, but that he refused to draw 
the models given him. 

Told to do a horse, he will sketch in a horse, any horse, 
then build all about it a remarkable mediaeval stable. And 
he will put all the work not in the horse, but in the stable. 
Given a bird to do, suggest the bird, drinking from a foun¬ 
tain sculpted after the manner of Alma Tadema. The 
ocean, a wave or two, and riding atop, a ship from the Span¬ 
ish Armada. It tends to candlestick-making, you see, so I 
can’t complain. I asked the boy to bring me his drawing 
book. Had he felt in the least guilty, he would have hesi¬ 
tated. Instead, he rushed off to get it. Imagine my sur¬ 
prise to find it full of the very things that fill my own life. 
All night long I tried to work some plan. Yesterday morn¬ 
ing we had it out. 

“Would you like a career, my son?” 

154 


ONE GOES HOME 


“What’s a career?” 

“A swift or certain course of life that should lead to the 
fulfilment of one’s ambition,” I said. 

“I know ambition. Mr. Hume has told us about ambi¬ 
tions, real ones and false, Is a career a real one, Dad?” 

“Yours would be.” 

“If you say so, I’ll take it on, n said he. 

“Even if it meant going away from home?” 

“I am away from home at Canterbury,” 

“Away from America for a while?” 

“Anywhere, Dad, if you say so.” 

“I’d thought of Downside. England seems somehow 
closer than Italy. But Rome is wdiere you must learn the 
things I want you to use as a foundation. What about 
Rome, son?” 

“If you say Rome, Dad, Rome it is.” 

I won’t go into the look in his eyes, the brave tremble of 
his voice. It was all Raphael—your Raphael and mine, 
soldier in heart and artist in soul- 

The Van Dysarts sail the first of the month, and Raphy 
goes with them. I hate to tell you this, for it may mean 
years till you two meet. Romilda will miss her playmate 
too. But she has found so much to divert her at Eden Hail 
that she may spend her vacation with some of the little 
girls of her own class. I’ve thought perhaps that when the 
years that separate you and Raphy have drifted by, and you 
find each other, you’ll be grown up, ready for whatever of 
joy or disappointment that may come. 

There’s so much, on the way to grown-ups. Happiness, 
sorrow, joy, renunciation, great peace, and sometimes great 
sacrifice. But, because of the very age that brings these 
things we can enjoy them the better, bear them in patience, 
or just laugh with them. Laughing is best of all. 

He promises to write you from Rome. And you must 
write to him. Aunt Kathleen will see that all the letters 
reach him. Send them in her care. Judy pines for you 

155 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


and would wilt, were it not for the hope of seeing you 
again when you come home. We all send you our love, and 
look forward to the time when we shall have you with us 
every single day. 

Uncle Michael. 

Sea Roses, June, 19— 

Darling Poor Uncle Michael: 

The letter was all for Raphy, but not from Raphy. An’ 
you didn’t say much about what he said. Love from 

Joan. 

New York, June, 19— 

Dear Joan: 

Dad tells me he told you. He asked me if I had any 
regrets. Just one, I told him, just Joan. That’s you. He 
is a strange Dad. Being a boy I would never cry, even if 
I could. Dad said, “Cry, old man, if you like. A human 
being without tears is a human being without a heart, and 
a human being without a heart is a very terrible human 
being indeed.” Then he went on: “So, my son, while you 
laugh your joyous life along, keep a tear or two in readiness 
for its tendernesses, if not for its griefs. So, laughing, the 
tears will never be bitter ones, but a comfort perhaps to 
those for whom you shed them.’* 

He if a queer Dad. I tell you because you are a girl and 
it may help. And he insists on sending you a drawing he 
made of me. I wanted to save it for your Christmas, but 
now, since I’m going away, I think I’d rather you had it. 
Do you know what he has done for me? You. From 
memory he has painted you, with Judy in your arms. I 
won’t write again before I sail away. But I will send you 
ship letters and write often from Rome. Joan—good-bye.’ 

Raphy. 


156 


ONE GOES HOME 


Radio 

To White Star S.S. Olympic. Raphael Crighton. Care 
Van Dysart: 

I made all the surprises except the pillow. Mummie made 
that. Come home soon. Joan. 

New York, July 22nd, 19— 

Dear Jack: 

I am frankly worried about Faith’s line to Hilda, the 
news of Mickey’s illness. It came fully two weeks ago. 
I’ve not heard from any of you since. I thought from the 
earlier letters it was a passing cold or a touch of flu and 
that the boy would be well in a few days. Let me know 
how he is if it’s only a word. Is there anything I can send 
from here ? Any person I can send ? I will go myself if 
you need me, old fellow. I would do anything in human 
pow T er for you or yours. It would be little enough in com¬ 
parison to what you are to me, one and all. 

Michael. 

Telegram 

Carmel, July 27th, 19— 

Our boy died at sunrise. There is nothing you can do, 
but we are grateful for every word you say. Faith will 
write in a few days. John Desmond. 

Feast of the Assumption, August 15th, 19— 
Dear Michael: 

You see the day? I could not write before. Somehow 
she seems to have lifted him up with her, out of life that kept 
him back from Heaven. Lifting him to her own Son, she 
takes him where we hope some day to be. Sooner or later, 
Michael, sooner or later. But the last, our Mickey, is first 
of us, to come into his own. How well she knows how to 
carry him, how to raise him, Mickey, our baby. And she, 
Mary our Lady, mother of her little Christ-Child Son! 

157 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


It was only a cold at first. We thought little of it. Then, 
torrential out-of-season rains began, and we could not seem 
to keep him warm. When the rains were over, his strength 
appeared somehow to have gone with them. We flnow now 
it was only what had always been. You see, we’d thought 
him cured. The lameness was cured, but not the illness that 
had caused it. When it broke out again, it could not be 
stopped. I won’t tell you how sweet he was. Just a little, 
tired child. 

We let him make his first Communion, Michael. I had 
thought it better to hold him back till he would be seven, but 
Joan had talked to him so much, had shared the coming of our 
Lord to her as clearly as she could. You know she always 
shares whatever she has, so the boy knew. Twice he had 
said, once to Jack, once to me, “He comes to Joan. Why 
won’t He come to Mickey?” We couldn’t stand it at the 
end. We had the priest come. He asked the child a few 
questions, then said: “Oh, my dear young people, the boy 
knows!” He was just over five. If we could all have so 
alive a faith as Mickey had, if we could have his little, child¬ 
like reverence, if we could make our thanksgiving as he 
made his, I believe God could hardly wait to come to us. 
He came, a Viaticum, the night before. 

The child fell asleep about an hour after. I watched 
him. Jack too watched him, my poor Jack who felt it was 
all on account of him. Jack didn’t know what I knew’ 
then. I told him later, but the Christ-Child Who came 
that night to our little son, loved him too dearly to keep 
him out of his playground any longer. Earth’s all very beau¬ 
tiful for most of us, but for His elect He spreads the fields 
of Paradise. 

Once Mickey woke, and when he saw us watching him, 
he laughed. “I’m not alone. I haven’t been alone since 
He came. Didn’t you know he stayed to play with me?” 

The greater change came during the night, but he lin¬ 
gered on till dawn* Then he opened his eyes and asked for 

i 5 8 


ONE GOES HOME 

Joan. Jack brought her in. She didn’t know, poor child. 
How could she? 

I’ve never seen a sun so golden as the sun that rose that 
day. Our boy smiled and held out his fragile arms to the sea, 
then said, “Lift me up, Daddy! Look! It’s Joan’s day!’’ 

But his head drooped, and he fell asleep on Jack’s shoul¬ 
der. 

The Father Who loved him even more than Jack or I, 
had raised him to a morning that should never know an 
end. 

Think, Michael. Only the brief space of five short years. 
Eternity of happiness beyond conception! Oh, Michael, 
wasn’t it worth while? If in the lonelier years that lie 
before us the thought may come that we need not have suf¬ 
fered so, how the glow of his last sunlight will shine to the 
very caverns of our souls, and show us what it is to Mickey 
to have lived! 

God bless you, Michael. May we find you at home when 
we go back. For we will need you, then. 


Faith. 


CHAPTER X 


DIANA 

N EW YORK’S long, hot summer had come to 
an end at last. Streets began to look a little 
less like avenues of the dead. Boarded windows, 
fenced-in doors were opened to the light, and about 
the houses were evidences of active getting into 
order. 

East of Park Avenue among the smaller resi¬ 
dences in the Sixties, was one that had been neither 
fenced in nor boarded up. Day in, day out, its 
windows had framed a face, watching not so much 
the casual cart or motor, but the relentless passing 
of endless days. 

Had it not been for the dark shadows about the 
eyes and under them, for the mouth grown hard 
in spite of itself, it was a young face and beautiful. 
But it was wan with a pallor that had never known 
the heat and deadly monotony of an August and 
September in town. 

Dry, dull, unprofitable, this strange summer with 
its rare whiffs of salty breeze to freshen a few 
moments of it, and give one courage to live through 
another day. Dry, dull, unprofitable, all the weary 

160 


DIANA 


years. What was Diana going to do about it? The 
little drooping trees in front of her house were 
the only bit of green she’d had to look at since 
the spring. Even the park seemed too far away, 
though when the child waked and cried she tried 
to exert herself to walk to it, then let the other 
woman go instead. 

The tinkling bell had sounded often enough in 
the rooms through early summer. 

“No. Missus Minton is not at home.” 

“No. She will not be at home this month.” 

“No. Not next month.” 

“No. She didn’t say where she was going.” 

“No. No address.” 

After a while the bell stopped ringing. Even the 
postman’s call was rare, and when he did come, the 
letters found themselves for the most part in the 
wastebasket, unread. 

Only one thing Diana cared to do, but so great 
was her anxiety and worriment that even that had 
now somehow lost its zest. The child. She could 
play with her by the hour. She had fitted up a room 
as one might equip a doll’s house, with little chairs, 
a tiny table, and toys. But the curious child did not 
care in the least for the toys. One day in a desperate 
effort to amuse her, Diana had brought in a box of 
colored plastic. From that moment there had been 
no trouble. Hour after hour the little thing would 
sit contentedly fashioning such flowers as she knew, 
men and women like distorted pigimies, animals 

161 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


whose prototypes were yet undreamed of, and show 
them in her little hand for approval. 

Other days, she would lie fretful, feverish, inert. 
It w’as then that Diana would sit at the -window, 
thinking, thinking, trying to find a way out. Nothing. 

One afternoon came a knock at her door. 

“Yes?” listlessly. 

“The evening paper.” 

“Thank you, Hana.” 

“Will I turn on the light, Missus Minton? It is 
almost too dark to see.” 

“So. Not yet. Passiflore. How is she?” 

“Sleeping now. I b’lieve we don't need the doc¬ 
tor.” 

“This time maybe not. But there will be other 
times.” 

“I thought a way.” 

“What way, Hana? I’ve thought till my brain 
aches, but I can see no -way.” 

“Perhaps Bellevue would send doctor. Then we 
needn’t take her there.” 

“There must be other ways.” 

“Yes, Missus Minton.” 

“Give me the paper, Hana.” 

As she took it, her hand touched the little brown 
hand that gave it to her, and held it for an instant. 
By reason of their peculiar position together in this 
house, the common interest that bound them, they 
had grown to be more like companions than mis¬ 
tress and maid. 


162 


DIANA 


“Something more, Missus Minton?” 

“Nothing more. I will try to get a breath of 
air later, but will stop in to see Passiflore before 
I go.” 

“If she wake up, I tell her. It makes her better 
every time.” 

Hana left the room quietly, closing the door be¬ 
hind her. 

What was it about this woman that made her 
different from others in her station? It had often 
puzzled Diana. Whatever Hana did, was done with 
a perfection nothing short of art. If a duty were 
to be done, it was performed without question. 
Menial work was elevated to higher levels because 
of the spirit the Japanese woman carried into its 
achievement. 

Through it all she held herself like a princess 
in miniature, this Hana, the wife of Matsuo, she 
who had washed dishes in the pantry that fearful 
day, and fled from the house at night. 

Diana glanced at the first page. Mr. and Mrs. 
Michael Crighton had returned to town. A cynical 
smile curved the lips that had grown hard. Hilde- 
garde had returned to town; she who had gone 
gayly, unscathed down curiosity’s hill, leaving Diana 
a wreck behind her. Carefree Hilda, irresponsible. 
Happy? 

And Michael, the great architect. Perhaps of 
all the world that had been Diana’s, he was the 
only one to whom she would have dared appeal. 

163 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


But Passiflore’s father lived in his house. She did 
not intend to risk parting with this child, Diana, who 
had no child. Why not? 

Restless, she got up and went into the room ad¬ 
joining the one like a doll’s house, at risk of dis¬ 
turbing the child who lay there ill. 

Passiflore was not asleep, but she seemed to be 
in pain, dark cheeks aflush, tears in her eyes. 

“My back hurts. I can’t lie on it.” 

“Poor baby. Perhaps if I rubbed it?” No hard¬ 
ness about the mouth now. 

“Mother tried. And mother hurt.” 

“Perhaps something’s wrong. Let me see, dar¬ 
ling” 

She slipped the little nightgown down- 

When she kissed the burning forehead, her lips 
were chill. Did Hana know? Could Hana know? 
If she did, what would happen? The Japanese 
were a strange people. Ordinary suffering, priva¬ 
tion, physical ill, they bore like stoics. But—this? 
What was their belief in a future world? Hana 
was a Catholic, and Catholics did not allow the way 
out permitted the Japanese. But Hana was Orien¬ 
tal. What of racial code in a case like this? What 
about human weakness? Was it possible that 
Arachne’s philosophy might be right? 

But Hana must know. Surely she was not blind 
to a thing as manifest as this? And it explained 
Passiflore. It made clear the reason why she had 
never care for active games most children love, 

164 



DIANA 


and accounted for her strained little manner of 
looking up when one stopped to watch the growth 
of things she made from clay. It quite solved the 
child’s endless weariness. Philosophy? Sophistry? 
Could either help? 

“You did ring?” 

The child’s mother had come to the door so 
noiselessly that Diana had heard no step. 

She sat rigid, mechanically holding the hand that 
had been flung from under the covers, hand burn¬ 
ing up with fever. 

And Hana saw. Diana knew that she saw, knew 
that she knew. 

What the mother had known, she had never 
told. If she told, what might not the Lady Diana 
do ? 

“So you know now, Missus Minton.” 

Diana nodded acquiescence. 

“I did not tell for fear you would send us 
away.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Some women would. Some men, too. My baby 
not like other children. Put her out of sight.” 

Tenderly she bent over the little suffering thing, 
lifted her in her arms and made as if to carry her 
off at once. With the fatalism of her race, she 
accepted what seemed inevitable, and asked no 
questions. 

“Wait, why did you say what you did?” Diana 
asked as if she had not heard her the first time. 

165 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Why not? Most people believe only in per¬ 
fect bodies for children.” 

“And you, Hana?” 

“I believe in perfect soul. Body not count so 
much with Hana.” 

“Put her down, please. There, that’s right. 
Now tell me what you mean.” 

“My Passiflore’s soul is straight an’ white. What 
does it matter if her back is crooked? Some day 
it will be buried in the ground. Nobody will see. 
Not even Hana. Nobody will remember the 
crooked body. But Passiflore’s soul will be alive 
and— happy. It flies to its God, to live always. A 
beautiful soul and a beautiful mind has my baby, 
Missus Minton Passiflore’s hands. Are they 
crooked?” 

Diana took a slender hand in hers once more, 
looking at it this time. Long fingers, brown, slight, 
obedient to what Hana said was a beautiful mind. 
Quaint fashioner of quainter creatures. Who could 
tell what it might achieve—if it lived? 

“Never again suggest my not wanting her, please. 
I want her more than anything I’ve ever had in all 
my life.” 

Without turning, hardly seeing where she went, 
Diana made her blinded way to her own room, 
found a hat and put it on, walked swiftly to the 
deserted avenue, crossed to the park side, then 
went north. 

What was she going to do? Between taxes and 

166 



DIANA 


depreciated securities her exchequer was none too 
high. The reckless years behind her! One more 
thing she must put back, drive it to the space of 
lost remembrance or she would go mad. The reck¬ 
less years! God! Had she known Him it might 
have been easier. Given time, she might save up 
enough to take the child to a great specialist in 
Boston. 

But was there time? Were it simply a case of 
the charity that had caused her on an impulse to 
take Hana and the baby home, it would have been 
simple enough. But love had stepped in—that made 
the difference. Public charity was all very well 
where one did not love. With her soul, such as it 
was, Diana had learned to love this crippled child. 

Who was there to help? No one, unless—it 
might be Michael Crighton? Then between the 
shadows she saw him coming towards her. Other 
nights she would have averted her head and allowed 
him to pass by, not seeing. It was years since they 
had met. He came closer, glanced once her way, 
did not recognize her, and went on. 

She knew she had changed. For the matter of 
that all her world had changed. Why not she 
along with them? Michael must not go. It might 
be her only chance. She turned quickly, and spoke: 

“Michael!” 

He hesitated, stopped, then looked at her. Then 
with all his old cordiality, greeted her, though he 
had been among the men who knew. 

167 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Diana! I supposed you were away with the 
rest of New York. We only got home today our¬ 
selves.” 

“I know. I saw it in the paper. I had been 
thinking of you. Perhaps that’s why I found 
you.” 

“Subconsciousness is a wonderful machine. What 
are you doing in town so early?” 

“I’ve not been away.” 

“All summer—here?” 

“All summer.” 

“Then you’re one of the wise ones. After all, 
there are so many places for daytime country, Long 
Island and the rest. And you can sleep at peace in 
your own house when night comes.” 

“I did none of the things one should do, or used 
to do.” 

Dim lights above them had shown him the pallor 
of her face, and the rings about her eyes, and the 
deadness of the hair that used to remind him of 
the hair of Fra Angelico’s angels. It must have 
been the interminable summer in town. Why had 
she stopped him? After years. There must be 
some reason- 

“I need advice. There’s no one else I could speak 
to. I’ve been wondering what I could do. Won¬ 
dering till my head has driven me almost mad.” 

“Let me help. Come. I’ll walk your way if I 
may.” 

“Please do. I only go out at night. It’s been 

168 



DIANA 


so hot. And I usually come here, to be near the 
trees. I don’t meet anyone I know. But you are 
different. How much patience have you got, 
Michael? It’s a long story.” 

“All the patience you want me to have,” he 
laughed. 

“You’ll need every bit. But you will be inter¬ 
ested. It concerns you in a way.” 

“Tell me, then.” 

He could perfectly well understand her not want¬ 
ing to see Hildegarde. Diana’s story was fairly 
well known by her own set, and Hilda’s original 
part in it was better forgotten. 

“You knew I had practically adopted a child?” 

“Vaguely. I heard something about a child.” 

“Did you ever hear whose child it was?” 

Curiously he looked at her. What difference 
could it make to any one whose child she had 
adopted? 

“No.” 

“What I tell you, I tell you alone, Michael.” 

“I understand.” 

“Hana, the Japanese woman, Matsuo’s wife, had 
a child.” 

“That child. It lived?” 

“Why not that child? I had none of my own, 
and it lived.” 

There was a defiance in her tone that uncannily 
reminded him of Hilda. They walked on in silence. 
Michael began confusedly to connect things in his 

169 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

mind, that for years had been more obscure than 
the semi-darkness around them. 

“Tell me all about it.” 

“It goes back years.” 

“I’ve wondered—for years.” 

She clasped her hands nervously together, then 
unclasped them. It would have been a relief to 
speak to anyone. But to tell Michael, the one man 
who might be of assistance was like the mercy of 
Providence. 

“You knew it didn’t last long—Larry and I. 
Less than a year.” 

“Yes. I knew.” 

“We won’t go into why I married him. That’s 
over and done with.” 

“Just this one question. Did anyone try to pre¬ 
vent it?” 

“Faith tried. She knew I didn’t love him, as I 
should, I suppose. But”—he heard the defiance 
in her voice again—“I didn’t love Bruce, either. 
Not even Bruce, though they all thought I did.” 

“You were so young. You are still, Diana. How 
could you know?” 

“I didn’t care. Love, real love, meant nothing 
to me. I’d never been free. I wanted my fling, 
got the chance, and took it.” 

“The eternal search for hapiness, Di. You fared 
forth to find it like many another child. Only you 
didn’t know what it really was, and lost your way.” 

“I didn’t know the landmarks. I made a mistake, 

170 


DIANA 


then kept on making mistakes, always seeking al¬ 
ways finding the wrong people, always being mis¬ 
taken in myself. And I went ahead, frivolling like 
mad. One night I had been at a particularly stupid 
dance. They’d all grown stupid by then, every one. 
I refused to stay with the rest and started home 
alone. I slipped away so that no one would come 
with me. The party had been down at Green¬ 
wich Village. You see I had fallen on strange 
ways. Well, coming up, the taxi turned into Thirty- 
first street. It was a few minutes before two I saw 
by the Pennsylvania clock. A stream of people that 
looked like working people turned in at a gate half¬ 
way down the block towards Sixth Avenue. I won¬ 
dered what it could be at that hour. There were 
lights streaming down a flight of steps and I heard 
an organ. Then I knew it must be a church. What 
kind of a church it was I didn’t know and cared 
less. I was sick at heart and tired of everything. 
So I stopped the taxi and got out. It was the church 
of Saint Francis of Assisi, he who was good to 
animals and birds, and the poor rich and the rich 
poor and every one. Luckily my evening wrap was 
black. I pulled a scarf over my head like the sim¬ 
plest of the women and sat behind a pillar. It was 
somehow restful. The music played, and the people 
all sang together. Then a preacher got up in the 
pulpit. And he preached about love. Wasn’t that 
a queer thing for me to fall into that night of all 
nights? What he said was different from anything 

i ? 1 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


I had ever listened to. Indeed, it was the strangest 
sermon I ever heard. Nobody noticed me, for he 
held them. He held those working men and women 
as Saint Paul must have held his hearers, as Christ 
must have held His multitudes. Shall I tell you 
what he said? Are you bored?” 

“Tell me. I’m not bored.” 

“This is the way he began. I have never forgot¬ 
ten. It seemed so sublimely beautiful: 

“ ‘If I speak with the tongues of men and of 
angels, and have not charity, I am become as sound¬ 
ing brass, or a tinkling cymbal.’ ” 

“There’s no lesson in all the gospel so divine, 
Diana.” 

“I don’t know your gospel, so I’m no judge. But 
what I do know is that nothing ever impressed me 
as much as what he said, the simple friar in the 
brown robe, who spoke with the light of Heaven 
shining in his face. I was so ashamed after he 
got through. I had not been patient. I had not 
been kind. Oh, Michael, if I had been kind or 
patient, I would never have let Larry go! Listen. 
I bought a Bible the next day. And this I learned 
by heart: ‘Beareth all things.’ I had borne noth¬ 
ing. ‘Believeth all things.’ I had lost whatever 
faith I had. ‘Hopeth all things.’ In my despair I 
had set up the golden calf and worshipped it. ‘En- 
aureth all things.’ I had endured nothing.” 

When he finished with that, he said, that charity 
is simply love, and that love is all the doctrine of 

172 


DIANA 


Christ. He said that until you have suffered for 
love, you have not known what love is. Until you 
have sacrificed for love, it has been only half a 
thing. Unless, like Saint Francis, you are willing 
to sink yourself into such an abyss of divine love 
•that your soul gives itself out in love to all created 
beings, you have not known the first meaning of 
life. He said that even through utmost agony of suf¬ 
fering, where there is love, is joy, and the peace no 
one can take away. It made a great impression, you 
see. I believe it is the only sermon I ever heard all 
the way through. Long ago I ought to have learned 
the difference between pleasure and happiness. But I 
had deserted God, and taken up with gods. I was 
brought up Puritan of Puritans. You know what 
that means. Then I threw myself at Larry’s world. 
What could anyone expect? Tired? There’s a 
great deal more. Pm making my confession, 
Michael.” 

“Pm not tired, Pm deeply interested. Go on.” 

“Your house gave me joy as well as—knowledge 
of the fruit of the tree of evil. I try only to re¬ 
member the joy. 

“The day after the sermon I went back to the 
monastery adjoining the church. I asked to see one 
of the friars. Whether the one who came was old 
or young, I could not tell. He was tall and thin 
and straight, and had white hair. I told him about 
the sermon, and said that if charity is another word 
for love I would like to try my hand. Would he 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


tell me what to do? I thought, perhaps, to do a 
charity might wash some of the evil out of my heart. 
He wrote an address on a slip of paper and gave it 
to me, saying to go to some nuns who lived there 
and that they would have work for me. 

“It was to a tumble-down row of houses. Out¬ 
side they were nothing, but inside they had been 
transformed into some kind of a convent. The 
nuns wore white, all white from their veils to their 
shoes. I think it must have been the Mother Su¬ 
perior who spoke to me. She told me they had been 
praying for someone who might help them out in a 
case that had come to them. A Japanese woman, 
with a baby, had drifted to their doors. They 
thought she might make a good servant for anyone 
willing to take the child as well. She would not be 
separated from it. Would I see her? I said yes, 
and the nun sent for her. 

“When she saw me she started out of the room 
like a frightened thing. She had seen me—that day. 
But they made her stay. Then left us alone. She 
told me a strange story, and I asked to see the baby. 
Oh, she was a little doll, a Japanese toy, so tiny, 
so sweet! I wish you could have seen her, Michael.” 

“I wish I could, indeed.” 

“So, charity, being kind, love being sacrifice, joy 
being in giving, I took them home. Only, I found 
that the charity and joy, were to me, not to them. 
I could not live without them, because I love them 


174 


DIANA 


“What did Hana call the child?” 

“She would not name her. She had expected a 
boy, so had marked what she’d made, ‘Matsuoito.’ 
So I, I named her Passiflore, because she was like a 
flower born of suffering. Until to-night I did not 
realize how great the suffering. She’s been ill. I 
did not dream what it was. I hate to say it. I hate 
to think it. It’s the shock of finding out. She’s 
deformed—a hunchback, my pretty Japanese doll. 
Hana knew. Hana knew all the time. That is the 
wonderful thing to me. And there is something so 
marvellous in her faith that she doesn’t mind. She 
doesn’t mind! 

“Now. The husband, the man you had. If he 
knows, being what he is, feeling as he does, there 
might be tragedy.” 

“It would not do to let him know. Certainly 
not now.” 

Save for the muffled whir of an occasional car, 
the avenue was deserted. For a while their steps 
were the only sound along the way. The story as 
she told it was running through his brain together 
with realization of the necessity for silence. 

She thought he was working out a plan, so walked 
on patiently beside him. At last he spoke: 

“We must get the best possible advice.” 

She knew it would be like this. Her burden had 
become Michael’s burden. So would he have as¬ 
sumed the affliction of an entire world, could he, by 
so doing, have given peace. 

175 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


What was it the friar had quoted? “Charity is 
kind.” That meant Michael. 

“You see, I love the little thing,” she explained 
simply. 

“We usually do love those for whom we make 
sacrifices.” 

“Hana said the body would not live after, but 
the soul would, so the body doesn’t matter so much.” 

“It doesn’t in one way, but she’s not altogether 
right. The body does matter. It is the temple of 
the soul, likeness of the Holy Spirit. It was in¬ 
tended to be beautiful for that, if for no other 
reason.” 

“Oh, I remember. Faith said it, years ago, and 
she said I couldn’t understand. I don’t. How can 
my Passiflore be beautiful if she’s all crippled up?” 

Michael smiled as he answered: 

“ ‘Mens sana in corpore sano.’ We’ll keep that 
crippled temple healthy, first and foremost, with a 
sound mind to dwell in it. If human power can 
effect a cure we will have the little temple itself 
made straight. In any case, I promise you you 
will live to see beauty shining out of that child’s 
face. No one can be truly good in mind, and healthy 
of body without becoming that which for want of a 
better word, we call beautiful.” 

“Philosophy of light-maker, and shoe-maker. Is 
that it?” 

“Hans Sachs and Michael Angelo? Between the 
Cathedral dome and the foot of man, lies the great- 

176 


DIANA 


est human philosophy? It takes a good woman to 
grasp the—simple immensity of the problem.” 

She turned away. He must not see how crimson 
a tide swept across her face. He went on: 

“Did you ever stop to think what comfort there 
is in the words: ‘Whatsoever ye do to the least of 
these, ye do also unto Me?’ I know that in the 
charity that is love, there’s contact with Divinity 
Itself. And only good can touch Divinity.” 

“What about the sinner? He may have a 
moment of impulsive charity, but can he touch 
Divinity ?” 

“The Pharisee sat at table with Him, but it was 
the greatest sinner in Jerusalem who washed His 
feet. I’ve never known any one in whom there was 
not more good than bad. It is the good that reaches 
out of darkness, to light. Oh, there are wicked 
people, I grant you. But take a heart, clean, not 
drugged. Its natural impulse is to reach up to God.” 

“How?” 

“Divine love. The mantle of charity, if you will, 
or the love of God’s creatures be they men or chil¬ 
dren. It’s all in that. No one can love truly, and be 
all bad.” 

Diana’s answering silence was vibrant with 
thought. If to do for the little ones, were contact 
with the Divine, what would he the contact that for¬ 
bade their existence? 

Seven years ago Faith had told her one should 
permit them life simply because God willed it. 

177 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


What to those who had refused this greatest bless¬ 
ing in God’s gift? With His sacred lips He had 
said, “Suffer the little ones to come unto Me, and 
forbid them not.” 

“Forbid them not?” Though blind, crippled, 
poor, without mentality—forbid them not. Why? 
That they might come unto Him, seeing with glori¬ 
fied vision, being, in glorified existence, rich in the 
possession of Paradise, and knowing with the intui¬ 
tion of the archangels! Forbid them not. 

Faith had talked of the little catechism. She had 
said, God made one to know Him. love Him, serve 
Him in this world, and be happy with Him forever 
in the next. The next? To forbid them existence 
meant then to keep them away from Him forever 
in the next. 

A sickening sensation of loss filled her whole 
being for an instant. It seemed as if the ground 
broke into a great chasm before her. On one side 
what she was; on the other what she should have 
been. Was there here a chance of getting back 
at Hildegarde for the agony she must needs en¬ 
dure? She only had to tell Michael what manner 
of thing Hildegarde had made of her through the 
conscienceless revelations of Arachne and Arachne's 
followers. 

“Charity,” he had said, “is a touch of the Di¬ 
vine.” Would it have been—charity—to tell him? 

Diana need not have worried about it, thouo-h 
charity prevailed and she did rot tell. Michae 1 

178 


DIANA 


knew, and knowing, felt that what she did for Hana's 
child entitled her to be called good. 

Quaintly visionary candlestick maker! There 
was One Who watched his silent martydrom. But 
He Who watched knew, too, that through it all, 
Michael had a speaking knowledge of the stars! 

“Faith! By George! Faith. I knew we'd find 
a way.” 

“fell me.” 

“Did you know they had bought the house at 
Carmel? They were to have come home about 
now-" 

“What do you mean, Michael? Where is Car¬ 
mel? What could any of it have to do with Passi- 
flore, or me ?" 

“Carmel, in California, by the sea. Jack and 
Faith have a cottage there. You wouldn't mind be¬ 
ing with them, Diana?" 

“Foolish man! You can't make plans for other 
people like that. They might mind having me with 
them. Indeed, they might. Though Faith is the 
only woman I would go to.” 

It passed through Michael's mind that regenera¬ 
tion and humility like this were closely allied, but 
he spoke out of his active train of thought: 

“I wonder if they would do it? I could have 
Bland on from St. Louis. He’s a genius in cases 
of this kind. Then—you will want to go away-" 

“Oh, I do. I do. And now with all the town 
coming home-” 


179 





THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“I’ll wire Bland tonight.” 

“So sure of him?” 

“So sure, that it’s a promise he’ll come. I knew 
him once to be off to Colorado for a holiday, all in 
and tired out. While he was on his way to the train 
a poor man in whom he had been interested was 
taken ill. They caught the surgeon at Eads Bridge. 
He got off the train, went to the hospital where the 
man had been taken, performed a life-saving opera¬ 
tion and only continued his journey next day. In¬ 
cidentally he lost his suit-case. We can count on 
Bland.” 

Diana thought quickly. There were some shares 
of stock she had kept since her girlhood and some 
Liberty bonds. These might cover the expense. 
She could dispose of them and then manage, some¬ 
how, any way. Passiflore needed the best. She was 
so absorbed in ways and means that she hardly real¬ 
ized Michael was speaking. 

“It must be understood this is my personal re¬ 
sponsibility. If the child were well and normal I 
would have to tell the father. You realize that if 
he were anything but what he is I would have in 
conscience, to tell him. But I have given you my 
word. Since the harm came through—my house, it 
is I who will take care of her, of course.” 

“As you will.” 

Of what use to struggle since Michael would 
have his own way in the end? And Passiflore would 
get the better care. Passiflore was all that counted. 

180 


DIANA 


“When I get his answer I will call you up.” 

“I’m not in the book. You’d better write it 
down.” 

They stopped while he felt in his pocket for a 
pencil. 

“Plaza 00269. I am always at home.” 

“Some time tomorrow. I am practically cer¬ 
tain to find him in St. Louis now. If he’s away, his 
office will reach him wherever he’s gone.” 

She held out her hand then. “There’s a bus 
coming. I’ll take that. It’s so late. No, don’t 
come with me. I’d rather not. I can’t thank you.” 

The bus stopped and he helped her on. 

“God bless you, Michael.” She was crying, but 
only the conductor was there to see. 

Diana! 


181 


CHAPTER XI 


THE SCIENTIST 

“/CURIOUS character she must be.” 

V_>l The great surgeon stood in the drawing-room 
of Diana’s house wondering at its incongruities. 
Jt was simple enough. A long, rather narrow room, 
exquisitely furnished, framed a priceless gothic tap¬ 
estry, one of the four or five in all America that 
glint with golden threads. Gems from the hands 
of long dead genius were scattered here and there, 
and in their midst, on a low table, an irrelevant col¬ 
lection of odds and ends made out of common plas¬ 
tic, blue, red, green. A small crystal vase set in the 
centre held what was evidently the gem of the col¬ 
lection, the one thing that had been carefully mod¬ 
eled in plaster. He had just taken it into his hand to 
examine it when a swift step behind him made him 
turn. 

“I was certain you’d come.” 

“I had to. Crighton’s message said, impera¬ 
tive.” 

“It was good of you not to lose any time.” 

“Oh, I was coming to New York anyway on 
another case.” 

He said it as if to cross half a continent for the 

182 


THE SCIENTIST 


sake of a sick foreign child were no greater effort 
than to walk into his own garden. 

“I see you’ve been diagnosing me,” Diana said, 
as she saw the little plaster flower in his hand, and 
that his eyes were still puzzled. 

“Oh, yes,” he laughed. “One could hardly help 
it. Could one?” as he looked around the room and 
returned to the discrepant table. 

“Hardly. These things are the work of a child, 
your patient.” 

“I see. Buy why this flower? There’s no mis¬ 
taking it, the spear, the nails, the sponge, the deli¬ 
cate tracery of the crown. Why should so young 
a child make a minute study of the passion flower? 
The cats and jumble animals, I can understand.” 

“Her name is Passiflore. No. She is not able 
to come down. We will go up to her now, if you 
please.” 

She led him up the winding stair, where Hana 
knelt beside a bed, crooning a Japanese lullaby. 
Her voice could neither silence nor drown the little 
moans of anguish. 

The doctor lifted the child in his arms- 

It might have been an hour later that Diana who 
had walked her room without ceasing, ventured 
to the door and stopped to ‘listen. She heard the 
two voices, the doctor’s quick, incisive, Hana’s 
gentle, quiet. Then she turned the knob and went 
in. The man was standing at the head of the bed, 
a long, cool hand on the child’s, forehead. Passi- 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


flore’s eyes, big with the fever that had passed, 
smiled at Diana. 

“He did take all the pain away.” 

“Then will Passiflore sleep now?” 

She turned her head on the pillow and closed her 
eyes. In less than a second she had fallen asleep. 
Doctor Bland lifted the baby’s hand and looked 
at it. 

“No wonder,” he said, pointing to the long slen¬ 
der fingers and the artistry of them. Then he said 
in a low voice to Hana: 

“I will explain everything to Mrs. Minton 
as you asked me. It will be all right. Keep up 
your patient courage. I need say nothing to you 
about faith, you’ve proved that.” He smiled as he 
said it. 

“No, I have my faith. It is what holds Hana up 
when all things fail. I can be brave, doctor. And 
Missus Minton is most brave.” 

Back in the small drawing-room the surgeon did 
not hesitate to speak. 

“The thing in this case is congenital. Sometimes 
it takes longer to develop, again a shorter time. 
Evidently it has been visible for perhaps three years. 
The mother has known it, has suspected what it is, 
but has been afraid to speak. You understand.” 

Diana nodded. She did, indeed, understand. 

“There is no cure. The little girl may live for 
years, many years. Or she might drift out in com¬ 
paratively short space. It depends on many things. 

184 


THE SCIENTIST 


Her heart is weakened just now, but can be built up. 
I find no other organic trouble. The unfortunate 
part is that she’s beginning to be old enough to real¬ 
ize sh; is not like other children. I have found in 
my experience that mental depression in cases of this 
sort becomes responsible for one or two conditions; 
morbid sensitiveness, timidity, shrinking from the 
sight and sound of her own kind, dread of publicity. 
The second condition is almost worse, for it begins 
with jealousy of those who are entirely normal, 
and out of this jealousy comes hatred and all the 
viciousness that those so afflicted are credited with 
having.” 

“I’d thought of this, and I was afraid of it.” 

“There’s a remedy, not for her illness, but for 
the mental state that rises out of it. We will speak 
of that later. There is one other thing, worse than 
those I have mentioned, that must be avoided at 
all hazards.” 

“What is that, doctor?” 

“Melancholia. The suicidal tendency is stronger 
with the Japanese than any other race.” 

“Whatever you say to do, will be done.” 

“Would you consent to have the mother leave 
you ? I understand you rather depend on her. Could 
you do without her?” 

“Even that. But it’s not only because I need her 
that I keep her. I could always get a maid. I have 
reasons I prefer not to go into.” 

“It is on the child’s account I speak.” 

185 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“I don’t understand. Do you mean that Hana 
must be separated from Passiflore? Are we to send 
Passiflore to a hospital?” 

“Not at all. The mother would have to take the 
child to another climate. You probably would not 
find it hard to get someone in her place.” 

“Why, we’d go together. How could there be 
any other arrangement?” 

“I thought so.” 

He had diagnosed Diana correctly. Not for 
their artistic value did she disfigure her drawing¬ 
room with the inconsistent collection of little plas¬ 
tic models. It pleased the child to see them there. 
Consequently, there they should remain. There was 
a certain lovable simplicity about this woman, and 
her next question bore it out. 

“What do you want us to do?” 

It was evident that if the love she had for the 
incongruous child could be served at all, it was to 
be through blind obedience. 

“She must be kept out of doors in the sunshine. 
She must play from morning to night and sleep in 
the sunshine when she is not playing. The sun is 
God’s remedy for many ills, hers most of all. So 
we will kill whatever germs there might be of de¬ 
pression or melancholia.” 

“She could do the plastic toys out of doors then, 
if we find an out-of-doors?” 

“Not till we’ve built her up, physically and men¬ 
tally with healthful exercise and rest.” 

18 6 


THE SCIENTIST 


“Not before? She won’t be happy. I may as 
well tell you that.” 

“Not before. If we hold her toys out as a re¬ 
ward for getting well, it will be an inducement to 
help along her own cure.” 

“What about diet?” 

“I’ve told the mother. She will show you the 
list. We will not need another nurse, just the 
mother—and you?” 

Diana nodded. The eyes that were lifted to his 
were full of tears. 

“We both love her.” 

“That’s half the battle. I can trust you to take 
better care of her then, than the best trained nurse 
in the world.” 

“There is definitely no cure?” 

“I’m afraid not. But that’s no reason why we 
should not build up a happy life in this frail child. 
Indeed, there is no reason why it should not be as 
happy as the lives of many who are physically per¬ 
fect. A warped mind is not necessarily part of a 
crippled body.” 

“No.” 

“Then there’s the future. We can’t neglect that, 
can we r 

“What future?” 

“Do you think that the phrase, ‘Nothing de¬ 
filed can enter Heaven’ applies to the body or to the 
spirit?” 

“You, a modern scientist, ask me that?” 

187 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“So I am, a modern-day scientist, emerged out 
of the abyssmal ignorance of pseudo-scientists who 
pretend to believe that God is neither Origin nor 
End. Not even the Evolutionists stop to think that 
evolution never started whirling of itself. It’s 
simply silly. We know that the glorified body shall 
rise again, even such a body as your Passiflore’s, 
more beautiful than the angels. So, what matter its 
condition now, if the soul is straight, the soul that 
shall beautify that little, lovable face.” 

“You really believe all this?” 

“Assuredly. Don’t you?” 

“I never thought much about any of these things.” 

The doctor rose. There were other cases to be 
seen while he was in New York. 

“Knocking about the world, studying human na¬ 
ture along with the human frame, we surgeons dis¬ 
cover for ourselves a great deal that is not written 
in books. Some of the strange things we learn are 
not easy for a casual mind to accept.” 

“What are some of them?” 

“One is the essence of happiness in this life. Oh, 
not mere joyousness; happiness, I mean, deep rooted 
and glorified.” 

“What is the essence of all this?” 

“The cross. I said it wasn’t easy to understand.” 

“Suffering?” 

“Suffering, sorrow, it’s very much the same. One 
is of the body, the other of the spirit, the soul.” 

“One must endure before one sees?” 

X 8 8 


THE SCIENTIST 


“One must. He did first, did He not? Why 
should He if it were not to show us the way? Did 
you ever hear a famous Dominican, Dom Bede 
Jarrett, speak on the seven words of Jesus from the 
cross?” 

“No.” Her path had lain in other fields. 

“In speaking of the repentant thief, he said ‘it is 
only when one is lifted up with Christ, close beside 
Him, raised on the very cross, that one can be with 
Him in Paradise. Why? Because Jesus, God, is 
Paradise.’ ” 

“It is extraordinary. But—is it the law?” 

“I believe it to be the law of life. Have you 
ever known a person who has never suffered to un¬ 
derstand the fullness of joy?” 

“I don’t believe I know anyone who has not had 
cause to suffer whether he or she has taken it as 
suffering or not.” 

“It must be taken, accepted as suffering. You see, 
however irresponsible one may have been, when 
sorrow comes, one must begin to think, and thinking 
makes of a man a responsible being, and honest 
responsibility must gain merit before Heaven. It 
seems to me that those who attain highest happiness 
are those who must at one time or another have 
been crucified in their hearts. So, dear lady, do they 
find their ‘day in Paradise’ through the cross.” 

“I’ve suffered, but not in any such spirit. No 
joy could come of it. I’ve gone through more than 
any human being knows. Only now, when I thought 

189 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


perhaps to ease my heart a little in the joy of having 
Passiflore and doing everything for her, I must 
suffer again through her pain.” 

She did not complain. She made the assertion of 
the thing as it was, patiently. 

“If you love her you must suffer for her. I think 
such unselfish suffering is bound to bring peace 
to your soul—eventually, when the first agony is 
over.” 

She did not answer but stood waiting, though for 
what she did not know. Then he went on: 

“Do you know the Creed?” 

She shook her head. Whatever she may have 
remembered of prayer was nebulous. 

“He was crucified, died, and was buried. Then 
the glorious rest of it, ‘And the third day He rose 
again from the dead.’ And the Apostles died to 
prove it. Men do not die for an untruth. Please 
always think of that. I really must be off. 
Good-bye.” 

Before she realized what had happened, he had 
taken her hand in his for a moment, was down the 
steps and away. 

Diana lifted her eyes a moment, saying: “Teach 
me, Lord, for I really don’t know.” It was the 
closest approach to a prayer she had made for many 
a long day, but it savored of the prayer of the 
Publican—“Lord, be merciful.”—Somehow then, 
peace came. 

Michael called up at three. “That you, Diana?” 

190 


THE SCIENTIST 


“Yes, yes. Doctor Bland came. Did he see you 
afterwards ?” 

“I saw him. I’d like to speak to Faith, with your 
permission, of course, before I go to you. I want 
to tell her everything. Perhaps it’s a great deal to 
ask, but I have a good reason.” 

“Why not? She and Jack have had their share 
of suffering. I can go to them, they’d understand. 
But—anyone else—I’d be afraid.” 

“I know. That’s all right. No one else need 
know. It’s no one else’s affair. When can I see 
you? I’ll try to get in touch with the Desmonds 
now.” 

“Five?” 

“Right. Five.” 

Then Diana did something she had never done in 
her whole life. She sought out Hana and said: 

“Plana, I want you to pray for something. I 
want you to pray right away.” 

“I will say my beads for what you want.” From 
the sleeve of her kimono Hana drew out a little 
rosary. 

“What do you do when you say your beads?” 

The Japanese woman made the sign of the cross. 
“I believe in God,” she began—“And the third day 
He rose again from the dead-” 

“Oh, Hana! Hana!” 

As the clock struck five, Michael rang the bell. 

“It’s all settled,” he said as he took Diana’s hand, 
“settled successfully.” 

191 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


If her hand trembled later on when they were 
seated at the tea-table and she poured the {tea, 
he never noticed it, so absorbed he was in his great 
scheme. 

“You’ve relieved Jack and Faith of a great 
worry.” 

“I? How?” 

“I told you they had bought the place near Santa 
Barbara, but coming away, they left only a care- 
taken, a casual of whom they knew little. You 
know their hearts were in that little house after 
Mickey—went out of it.” 

“I know.” 

/ 

“He loved the place and Joan was happy 
there.” 

“They named him for you, didn’t they?” 

“Yes; I was his godfather, but I never got to 
know him as I do Joan. He was never here for 
long.” 

“Did they bring him home?” 

“No. His grave is one of the links binding them 
to Carmel. They buried him in the little church¬ 
yard there.” 

“And now?” 

“They want to give you the house for the winter 
with Passiflore and her mother.” 

“But, Michael.” Her eyes were distended with 
distressed surprise. “I could never accept it. I 
could not think of letting them do such a thing.” 

“Why not? If it is what the child needs, and if 

192 


THE SCIENTIST 


it could make the mother who has endured more 
than her share, any happier, why not?” 

“Perhaps they’d let me lease the place?” 

“No. I know them too well for that. Why not 
see Faith and talk it over?” 

“Would she want to see me?” 

This time there were no concealing shadows to 
hide the flush nor did she trouble to turn her head 
away. Michael’s heart went out to her in pity. 

“Faith would love to see you.” A faint tinkle 
sounded through the house, and Michael’s eyes 
danced. “I believe that must be Faith herself. She 
said she would follow me as quickly as she could.” 


193 


CHAPTER XII 


THE SHINING KNIGHT 

G OLDEN sands caught between gleaming sap¬ 
phire sea and emerald grassy bed. Brown 
hands busy with the golden sands, moulding, shap¬ 
ing, finishing, now and again dipping crystal water 
from a deep depression and pouring it out through 
little brown-cupped palms. 

“Is it finished yet, Passy?” 

The eyes fixed on the miracle that grew beneath 
them, smiled. 

“You like it?” 

“Oh, how shall I tell you what I think. Your 
hands-” 

“I am pleased, too. It is not finished—quite. 
Wait.” 

Deftly she worked in a curve of a little wave 
beneath the fling of her miniature mermaid’s arm, 
then she fell back. 

“Finished now.” 

Joan stooped to see what last touch had been 
given; only a small passion flower tossing on a 
diminutive sea. 

“It was the signature. I thought so. I do love 

194 



THE SHINING KNIGHT 


it, so does Auntie Di. Let me call her to see it. 
She’s reading aloud to mother over there by the 
big boulder. 

But the girl with the pale oval face held her back. 

“Not yet. The sun will set before long. We 
will wait. It will be fine to-night, see the clouds. 
They will be pink in half an hour. When all the 
beach is bathed with rose, then you may call them 
both.” 

“Why must it go? Oh, Passiflore, can’t you 
save it?” 

The blue-black head bent over its masterpiece. 

“It’s carved in shifting sands. Like my world, 
Joan, to be blotted out when the tide rises.” 

“No, no. We’ll fix a way. Can’t we pour plaster 
or something, melted wax, over it?” 

“Not plaster, not wax, can keep the little sand 
girl safe from sweeping tides.” 

“Ways might be found stronger than your tides.” 

“Is anything stronger?” 

The brown hand was lifted now to shade clear 
eyes that looked out across endless expanse. Myriad 
waves lay between a sheltered land she knew of, 
but had never seen, and Passiflore. 

“Love is. Love is the strongest thing in life. 
Love is stronger and more powerful than all the 
tides. Love enough and what you do will live. I 
know. 

“Is that why your pictures live, Joan? Did love 
do that for you?” 

195 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


The rose-color that Passiflore waited for had not 
yet bathed the beach, still some of the sunset light 
had crept to Joan’s cheeks. 

“Love, ‘strong enough to move mountains’ must 
help any work. Yes, it was love in the pictures, but 
love will do more than that when it has grown as 
I shall grow.” 

Gentle breezes carried the enthusiastic words to 
Faith and Diana where they dreamed out to sea 
from their sheltered spot. 

“What’s the child talking about, Faith?” 

“Her little philosophies. She’s been so much 
with Michael she’s absorbed his quaintness and ten¬ 
derness. She’s far more his echo than a composite 
of Jack or me.” 

“Yet, she’s very much herself, Faith.” 

“She’s that too, but you and I both see Michael’s 
influence in what she thinks and how she expresses 
it.” 

“He undoubtedly was responsible for what she 
said a moment ago.” 

“That is what worries me. Jack knows it and it 
worries him, too. But Michael’s Raphael seems as 
vital to him now as his candlesticks. I don’t believe 
I’d dare interfere.” 

Diana said nothing, but wondered whether with 
an ideal as much alive as Michael’s boy was to Joan, 
would her own life have foundered and gone dere¬ 
lict? She believed not, but then one never could tell. 

“You have so much, you and Jack in each other. 

196 


THE SHINING KNIGHT 


You’ve Joan besides, and Mickey. You’ve never 
felt that you’ve lost Mickey, have you?” 

“Not that he’s gone. He seems closer at Sea- 
Roses, though he’s with us wherever we are. When 
Jack says ‘Let’s go back’ I feel that it is not so much 
Arizona driving, as Carmel calling.” 

“You Catholics never lose your own who die. It’s 
only that you can’t see them, isn’t that it? And at 
the same time they are in the happiness of Heaven. 
They are with God, doing whatever work God has 
for them to do, and yet are near you too, and you 
are certain of it. To me that is the most beautiful 
of all.” 

“Oh, the joy of that certainty! With God, in Him, 
by Him, through Him, of Him. Spirit enmeshed 
in utter joy and still so close to us that if my eyes 
were not blinded by their material selves they would 
see—I could put out my hand and touch him.” 

“Beside you?” 

“Beside Jack and Joan and me, beside everyone 
who needs him, beside those who pray to ‘the saints’ 
not ever having heard his name. In their gift of 
impenetrability they can be with us everywhere. 
And it’s all real, Diana.” 

“Of course, a rank pagan like myseif can’t see 
how he can be with you and in Heaven, too. Your 
faith must be strong to accept it.” 

“Why? It’s all the same in the ‘Communion of 
Saints.’ It’s all one, earth, Heaven, the Universe. 
The only difference lies in that our bodies are 

197 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


shackled by God’s greatest and most beautiful gift, 
life. And according to our use of life we shall be 
with Him or not when life is over.” 

“How close are they to God?” 

“How can one find words to express eternal 
things? But I believe the glorified soul is immersed 
in God, caught up in the joy of Him. But this is 
one of the mysteries, for none of us really know 
what Heaven is.” 

“You take so much on faith.” 

“Of course we do, my precious Di, of course we 
do. A man-made thing is easily analyzed. A divine 
creed is full of the mystery of God. Our religion is 
full of mystery, given to us directly from God. One 
doesn’t tear the fruit from the tree—now.” 

“I did, you know, once. It made a difference, 
Faith.” 

She spoke quietly, but Faith knew all about it 
now. Diana’s way had been dark, so dark, and it 
was she herself who had put out the light. But 
what she did not know was, what God knew about 
it, and that youth, ignorance, the folly of both had 
carried her away. Nor did she realize that that 
same God Who had ploughed the ground, was plant¬ 
ing the seed that should germinate to life and love, 
and radiance. 

“Is there a coming back, I wonder?” 

Faith’s eyes lingered a moment on the little 
drooping figure bent above the sands. 

“What have you done for Passiflore?” 

198 


THE SHINING KNIGHT 

“Only what I would have done for my—child— 
if I had had one.” 

“Why would you have done it for your own. 
Di?” 

“For love of her. What else is there?” 

“You’ve answered your own question. It is all 

of life’s philosophy. Listen-” she held up her 

hand. Joan’s voice, low and clear, reached them. 

“But will you do it, Passy? I want it so, I do. 
Uncle Michael has kept us apart all our lives, so 
many years. It’s ten years since I first knew him.” 

“Knew him?” 

“It’s the same thing. I’ve not actually seen him, 
but that hasn’t mattered. There’ve been the stories 
about him, letters from him, the pictures Uncle 
Michael did of him, and the ones I make out of 
my imagination. We’ve never actually been in the 
same place at the same time, but our spirits must 
have met or how could I know him so well?” 

“Mr. Crighton didn’t mean to keep you apart, 
Joan. It must have just happened.” 

“Oh, I know that. If my darling Mickey had 
lived he’d have been away at school, too, just the 
same as Raphy. Maybe he’d have had to be away 
in Rome or Paris. Passy-” 

“Yes?” 

“I’ve found out something nobody knows.” 

At this Diana put her hands over her ears. “I 
can’t listen to that, Faith, can I ?” 

“She’s my child. I must know.” 

199 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


The young voice went on: 

“Aunt Hildegarde doesn’t love her own son. 
I’m sure that’s the reason Uncle Michael sends him 
so far away.” 

“How do you know?” 

“It wasn’t in her to like us as children. She 
hated children. She doesn’t like me, not a bit. 
When I’m there, she’s as cross as a cross-patch, 
and while she doesn’t actually say anything, I can 
see her boiling inside when anybody mentions Raphy. 
Poor Uncle Michael! It makes him frightfully sad. 
Yet, he sticks to her.” 

“I love your Uncle Michael.” 

“Yes. Everybody does, except Aunt Hilde¬ 
garde.” 

The brown hand flew up to cover Joan’s mouth. 

“You must not say such things.” 

“But Passy, I know it,” she rejoined with em¬ 
phasis. “Aunt Hilda only loves herself. I had to 
be there a great deal. I found out that Uncle 
Michael would have died of loneliness if I had 
not gone to him. You have no idea how big that 
house is, and how empty. I used to see a lot of 
people who came when he was away or shut up in 
his library. Some of them laughed when she 
said, ‘poor Michael.’ I could have killed them all. 
There were two especially who always told her how 
beautiful she was. And she adored that. They 
were as old as the hills and were called Olga and 
Hazel. Thev often told her she was abused. Once 


200 


THE SHINING KNIGHT 


the Hazel harridan said, ‘Why don’t you do as I 
did. Leave him.’ Now what did she mean by 
that? How could Aunt Hilda? Wasn’t she mar¬ 
ried to him? I didn’t like that at all. It sounded 
uncanny.” 

“Were you happy there?” 

“I would rather have been with Mummie and 
Daddy, but since I couldn’t, I would rather have 
been with Uncle Michael than anybody. I could 
put up with her for the sake of being with him. 
After a while I learned not to talk when she was 
about. Then I adore Judy, the parrot, you know. 
And the little dogs were dears. Judy’s outlived 
them all. They died one after the other. Uncle 
Michael just has a Dingle Bey now. She doesn’t 
like Dingle because I got him for Uncle Michael. 
I know she doesn’t abuse him, though, because if 
she did, Judy would fly at her. Judy does dislike 
poor Aunt Hilda. Some day he’ll kill her!” Joan 
laughed and went on: “He does hate her that much. 
Once he flew at her eyes and almost put them out. 
But I pretended to cry and he behaved. It was 
awful. Ugh!” 

“Faith, tell me if all that is true.” 

“About Hilda?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ve always thought so. Michael begged so 
hard for Joan that we felt if her presence could in 
any way make him happier we’d let her go. 
And you know Michael did great things for Joan. 

201 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Think what it is for her now, what it will mean 
for her later, to have studied under him. After all 
he’s the greatest architect of his day in America. 
I know. But I know better what it is to have him 
for a friend.” 

“What a fool Hildegarde has been! What an 
arrant, hopeless-” 

Faith’s hand reached out to stop her. “That’s 
all right, old girl, but don’t say it. Maybe she’s 
always been handicapped. We can’t tell. The ques¬ 
tion is, Joan. She’s old enough now to be hurt. 
Oh, no, I don’t mean her feelings. We’ve all got to 
go through that and are the stronger for it. But 
my little girl’s soul mustn’t be bruised. Underneath 
all Hilda’s indifference she has rather a healthy fear 
of Michael’s principle.” 

“Where would she be if it were not for Michael?” 

“Oh, Hilda would have found a place. She 
would, you know. But I have an uneasy feeling 
that unless something unforeseen happens some day 
she’s going to tell Joan the truth. Her dread of 
what Michael might do is the only thing that holds 
her back. But”—she laughed as she said it—“I 
am as afraid to tell as Hilda.” 

“You? Afraid of Michael?” 

“Not Michael. It’s being an extraordinary in¬ 
fluence for Joan. I’m actually superstitious about 
breaking into it!” 

“Superstitious or not, you’d break in if you be¬ 
lieved you had to, Faith.” 

202 



THE SHINING KNIGHT 


Voices again drifted to them, Joan’s voice urging. 

“Do, Passy. I never wanted anything so much 
in all my life.” 

“Mustn’t want things too much. It hurts when 
we can’t get them, but if you tell me why you love 
him so, this boy you have never seen, I will try 
to do it. I cannot understand such love.” 

“I’ll make you understand,” cried Joan. “Who 
do you love best in all the world?” 

“My little mother.’ The brown hands gently 
caressed the tiny figure in the sands as if it had 
been image of the gentle soul who gave her life, and 
giving life, had given too the chance to become 
what she was destined in God’s will to be; light 
in a future of which none of them dreamed. 

“Anyone else?” 

“You.” 

“Oh, Passiflore, that’s sweet. Doesn’t some one 
come before me?” 

“I love the lady Diana, I love her,” tremulously 
now, “and would die for her.’ 

“Anyone else?” 

“Your dear mother.” 

“That all?” 

“The doctor. The big kind one that laughs with 
me, and has long arms and legs and comes to see 
me at least once in every year.” 

“Doctor Bland, the surgeon one?” 

The little artist nodded her head, and added with 
a smile: 


203 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“One I keep to the last, I love. One that be* 
longs to you.” 

“Who? Who?” 

“Mr. Crighton.” 

“I was waiting for that. Now do you know what 
love is?” 

“My love, yes. Not yours. Mine is different. 
I know them all. I see them when I can. They 
are kind to me. But it is not, none of it is, the 
love you have in your heart for Raphael whom you 
have not seen.” 

“I've not seen him, waking. But I’ve seen him 
in dreams and in my thoughts that are like living 
dreams, and so I know him well.” 

“How?” 

“At first he was just the little boy I played with 
in Uncle Michael’s house. He seemed to make the 
rooms less empty. Then, he wrote to me, and I 
answered his letters. And now—he comes all shin¬ 
ing, like Sir Galahad, and he’s strong, and fair and 
good. Oh, I do know him. He writes and tells 
me all about the things he sees and does in Rome. 
He tells me about his ambitions when he’ll be grown 
up. There’s something I want to ask you that may 
explain it better. Is it because of Aunt Diana you 
w r ant to make your sculpting perfect?” 

“No. I want to do my best for her, of course. 
She has done everything for me. But I just must 
model. If I could not, I would die. The thought 
of things I must make pushes my hands to the work. 

204 


THE SHINING KNIGHT 


My brain dreams day and night of what I want to 
do. Oh, so much, so much!” 

“Then that’s the difference. You do it for the 
work’s sake while I do it for Raphael. When I 
was little I tried to make the things Uncle Michael 
told me Raphy did, even the candlesticks. I’d in¬ 
vent funny gargoyles and Uncle Michael would 
laugh at them and send them on for Raphy to copy. 
Then /’d copy the portraits Uncle Michael did of 
him. That’s how I learned resemblances.” 

“You get them well, Joan.” 

“Yes, I know, first off, but it was because I wanted 
Raphy to say so. I want to do the most beautiful 
things he has ever seen. Perhaps there’s jealousy 
in it. I never want to hear him say, ‘There’s Jane, 
a girl of your own age, and she draws better than 
you do, Joan.’ Ha! No, sir!” 

“Oh, Joan, what a silly thing to feel. Does he 
have it, too, such jealousy? If some one does bet¬ 
ter than I, how can it touch what I do if it’s the 
best I can? If their work is better, it makes me 
w r ant to go ahead and do as well.” 

“That’s exactly like Raphy. There’s no jealousy 
in him, not a mean thing. Like his father, he will 

be great, and-” she added quite seriously. “I 

will paint pictures for his churches.” 

“You will have to get the technique of much be¬ 
sides portrait painting, then.” 

“I will do anything he wants. If I can help his 
work by study, I’ll study. You’ll see.” 

205 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“You are so pretty, Joan, and so straight. Some 
one will fall in love with you and want to marry 
you. You may fall in love with that some one. 
What will you do about Raphael then?” 

“Passiflore,” Joan spoke with all the romantic 
conviction of her sixteen years, “no one can ever be 
to me as my shining knight. Others can do wrong. 
He can do no wrong. Others are hard and selfish. 
It would kill me to marry anyone not kind and 
thoughtful. He is patience and unselfishness itself. 
He is like Uncle Michael, but he is all himself, too, 
in some ways not like anyone else. There are 
many not true to their ideals. He is all true and 
does what he knows is right. He is high-strung and 
has a temper. Not as bad as mine, though, but he 
controls his, and that makes him all the finer. Oh, 
Raphael will be a great man! 

“See, Passy, how he gave up his home and friends 
and me, because his father thought it best he should 
go away to Rome and study there. See how dearly 
he loved the art that was in him to do all this. I 
tell you he is a valiant spirit with high aims. There 
never could be two in one’s life like that. And 
I will have nothing less. So you see, while I 
live, I couldn’t possibly be in love with anyone 
else. And of course if a girl’s not in love how 
could she marry? Why should she? No reason 
at all.” 

“But, Joan, suppose he should?” 

“Should what, Passy?” 

206 


THE SHINING KNIGHT 


“Fall in love with some one where he is. It’s 
possible, you know.” 

“Yes. It’s possible. I had even thought of it. 
But if such a thing should happen I will never 
marry. I’ll go on with my work as you do, for its 
own sake, and because Uncle Michael would want 
me to. For me, it must be the best, the highest, 
only. Only, I said. No one but Raphael comes 
up to my standard. So that’s all there is about 
that,” she finished. 

“Di, did you hear?” 

“I did, indeed. Michael’s fantasy bears fruit. 
That’s love. What are you going to do about it?” 

“Consult Jack. Michael is a child in so many 
ways himself. These are the dreams of a child. 
He’s passed them on to Joan, sixteen and full of 
romance.” 

“She doesn’t belong to the epoch then, Faith.” 

“No, thank God. She believes in love and the 
holiness and beauty of it.” 

“That’s the way it was with you and Jack, wasn’t 
it?” 

Faith, knowing the heights and depths, the joy 
and the sacrifice, answered: 

“Yes, that’s how it is with Jack and me. Look, 
Diana, they’re beckoning; let’s go.” 

The color for which Passiflore had waited was 
sweeping across the beach at last and to the stretch 
of green beyond, turning the sea that had been sap¬ 
phire into a purple flood. Light that seemed liv- 

207 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


ing bathed the little carven figure that tossed on 
sandy spindrift. 

“Diana, Diana, see what your child has done!” 

That Passiflore had conceived and executed it 
appeared hardly possible. On sands that would 
shift before dark perhaps, lay a miniature master¬ 
piece. 

“You like it?” Head cocked on one side the 
young sculptress asked. 

“It’s a work of genius, my little beloved. I 
knew you were an artist, but I didn’t know you had 
—this—in you. If we could only make it last! 
See, Faith, the passion-flower, her signature. You 
are destined to great future, Passy, not things that 
must be carried away by the tide. This poor mer¬ 
maid is like a moth living only an hour to be de¬ 
stroyed at sunset.” 

“But, Lady Diana, she will have lived her hour,” 
said Passiflore.” 


208 


CHAPTER XIII 


AFTERMATH 

F ICKLE New York was drifting with the 
crowd. Its epochs might have been counted 
by the fashion of its restaurants. Old Delmonico’s 
in the 8o’s, Martin’s close on its heels, and Sherrys 
in the 90’s and 1900’s, old Sherry’s of pre-war days, 
the most beautiful in the whole world. But its 
traditional perfection was too fine a thing for the 
post-war influx to understand or appreciate, so it 
withdrew in proper dignity, and made place for 
the new generation. Came the Plaza, the Ritz, a 
galaxy of so-called Clubs, many closed in short 
order for violation of the Volstead Act, a new 
Sherry’s, the Ambassador, the Roosevelt, and 
Pierre’s. Pierre held to what he could of the old 
regime. It was he who for many years had helped 
keep the Sherry’s of the nineties the conservative 
delight it had been. So, at Pierre’s a table for seven 
had been arranged in a corner of the room farthest 
from the music. The solemn strains of Erik Satie’s 
“Socrates” made satiric accompaniment to Lawrence 
Minton’s party as it filed in. 

“Nice of you, Larry, to include me, but aren’t I 

209 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


out of the line of march with the Vans?” whis¬ 
pered Hazel Trent, unchanged, save for a certain 
fixed rigidity in her inexpressive face. It suggested 
applied art. 

“Are you? Perhaps we can compare notes,” an¬ 
swered her host. Even in this latter day of in¬ 
civility Hazel realized that with this resurrected 
Lawrence at least, a certain decorum must be ob¬ 
served. So she asked: 

“See much of them over there?” 

“Van, Mrs. Trent would like to know if I saw 
much of you—over there?” 

“Mrs. Trent perhaps doesn’t know that we— 
found ourselves—as it were, and found ourselves 
together.” Robert Van Dysart had often wondered 
at the incongruousness of the elements that made up 
a certain smart coterie of which Larry Minton, he 
and Kathleen were integral part. Hazel answered: 

“My dear man, I know nothing. No sphinx could 
have been more dumb than your Kathleen once you 
and she shook the dust of little old America from 
your shoes. Can we smoke now, sir host?” 

“Whenever you like.” Lawrence took a case 
from his pocket and handed it across the table. 
Olga Clavering drew a long sigh through a pink 
quartz-crystal toy, then asked: 

“Just what did you do?” 

“Two whole years in Italy for one thine.” 

“Hot?” 

“Not at all. We spent the winters in Rome, 

210 


AFTERMATH 


the springs in Venice, the summers and autumns on 
the lakes and in the hill towns.” 

“Larry with you ?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“I say, Larry, why not Paris? Far more con¬ 
genial, eh?” 

“Think so?” He lighted his own cigarette, then 
went on: 

“Had enough of Paris after the profiteers took 
hold. It was crowded with every nationality under 
the sun except the French. By the way, I did hear 
that you and Mrs. Trent were there so I dropped 
in at the Meurice one day only to learn you had 
flown.” 

“When?” 

“Can’t exactly remember. Maybe three springs 
ago. I’d gotten so stale I hardly knew one year 
from the next, till Kathleen and old Bob here shook 
me up and out. Never been back since.” 

“We did go over about then, just to London 
and Paris. Been too busy hunting over here since. 
The whole foreign and domestic world has emptied 
itself into New York. Why waste time and money 
travelling. The people are the thing. Sticks and 
stones are good enough for archaeologists.” 

“And architects?” It was Van Dysart who asked 
the question. 

“The Michael Crightons of the world, per¬ 
haps.” 

Silence. But Kathleen looked at Larry, and he 

21 i 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

understood. A few moments passed, then Larry 
said: 

“I did notice something had emptied itself into 
New York. It’s quite crowded on its own, isn’t it? 
Hard to find space on the Avenue to walk about.” 

“Why walk? Much too much proletariat to 
walk.” 

“And still you say you like it. I should think 
a little quietude would be a relief.” 

“Can’t live without crowds. That’s where we’re 
different. It’s the people who make a place.” With 
the didacticism of a pedagogue Hazel proclaimed 
her viewpoint. 

Donald Kaye, who had been quietly discussing cer¬ 
tain features of modern American architecture with 
his next door neighbour, entered for the first time 
into the general conversation. 

“Why necessarily people?” For a moment Olga 
w r as interested out of her ordinary phlegmaticism. 
Most boys of twenty-three or four cared a great deal 
for people en masse. Why was this one different? 
And why had Larry Minton annexed him? True, 
his manner was impeccable, his eyes intelligent, his 
bearing charming. But he was young. Perhaps he 
flew, or mediumized, or something. It must be 
something with a swing, and up to date. Auction, 
dancing, mah-jong, were understood. Everybody 
did them. Unless there were something exception¬ 
ally thrilling about a youth, why produce him? 

“Oh, nothing much. Except that sometimes if a 

212 


AFTERMATH 


place is attractive in itself, one can appreciate it 
better empty,” said Kaye. 

“Was this the vision that tempted Larry to desert 
an overpopulated Paris?” Hazel raised incredulous 
eyes. Kathleen laughed. It was all new and amus¬ 
ing to her, the modern angle a novel thing after 
years in an older world. 

“Ask him to tell you about it,” she suggested to 
the man on her right, Tuck Magargle by name. He 
had been annexed by the two merry widows as 
escort in waiting to those cabarets East of Fifth 
Avenue, called smart for want of a better adjective. 
Olga Clavering had asked Larry to invite him, but 
at first glance Larry had set the man down for 
what he was, a climber and parasite, not of Law¬ 
rence Minton’s world. If such old acquaintances 
as the women who sponsored him saw fit to push 
him ahead, it was their own affair. He w r as some¬ 
how sorry he had invited them. On an impulse 
he had yielded to the call of the old life. They 
had all been young together, when differences of 
taste and character had not been so marked. To¬ 
night the line of demarcation was rather painful 
than otherwise. Hazel Trent had sounded the note 
when she spoke of being out of the line of march 
with Kathleen and Bob. Magargle’s oleous voice 
roused him. 

“Tell us why, Mr. Minton. We are all curi¬ 
ous.” 

Lazily Larry raised his glass to his lips. Then: 

213 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“One can’t remain a fox-trotting hound all one’s 
life. I had really gotten bored, but kept on trotting 
because I didn’t know what else to do.” Olga drew 
a long puff and drawled: 

“What stopped you?” 

“Kaye here. He foxes and trots. He’s young, 
does everything a young man should. He flies, too. 
You might like to fly with him some day. He’s 
Beaux-Arts and that sort of thing. One day at the 
Salon he fell across the Vans. It seems he’d met 
them years ago when he was a child. He remem¬ 
bered Kathie. They asked what he was doing, he 
said painting. Where was he painting? In his 
studio. Could they come to it? So they bought 
one of his pictures. That night we were trotting at 
Ciro’s. He told me about it. Did I know them? 
I did. Where were they stopping? At the Ven- 
dome. That was the best news since I left America. 
I left the trottery then and there and never went 
back. It—nauseated me.” 

Magargle, seeped from New York’s back-wash 
to a fringed position by reason of war stocks, 
aplomb and purse, whispered into Hazel’s ear: 

“Does anybody know what became of the fair 
Diana?” 

“Nobody cared. You can see that much for your¬ 
self. He’s wandered about the globe without turn¬ 
ing a hair where she was concerned.” 

“Every reason why his hair should have turned 
white, I understand,” he gurgled with amused unc- 

214 


AFTERMATH 


tiousness. To those of delicate sensibilities his man¬ 
ner was particularly obnoxious, but Hazel had no 
sensibilities to be disturbed, accepting him for what 
he was and laughing at it. 

“No love on either side. She probably showed 
it from the start. She never could dissemble. Too 
young when it happened.” 

“Urn!” he grunted. Smooth self-consciousness 
wrote itself large on his well-fed countenance. Law¬ 
rence Minton, by no means the unobservant world¬ 
ling from under whose roof Diana had taken her 
departure several years ago, read the man for the 
acquisitive opportunist he was of the type developed 
the decade following the war. About him were all 
the signs of vast prosperity. Larry never doubted 
that the conversation carried soto voce might be 
about him. It was fortunate though for those who 
whispered he did not suspect it was about Diana. 

“How could Di care?” Magargle inquired. 

“Never knew you knew her. Call her Di? Must 
have known her pretty well.” 

“Why, we all called her that. I was one of her 
very closest friends,” he lied, smugly it is true, but 
lied all the same. Then he went on: “She had a 
deuced queer way of chucking a man.” 

“Chucked you? How?” 

“I had taken her to a dance in the Village, some 
dance, believe me,” he shook with appreciation, 
“nothin’ to shock her, not in the least; she wasn’t 
shockable. But she disappeared in the middle of 

215 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


it, completely disappeared. How she got home, or 
who got her there, I never knew.” 

“Maybe she was tired and didn’t want to break 
up the party.” 

“I called at her house next day. Was told she’d 
gone away. Eve never seen her again, and never 
saw anyone w’ho had seen her since.” 

“Strange,” said Hazel. “I think I’d keep quiet 
about it to Minton. Don’t suppose it would make 
any particular difference. He was always our sort, 
but”—she looked at Larry who, as far as externals 
went, might still be what she said—“I think you’d 
better be careful. One never knows. And he’s got 
the devil of a temper.” 

Mrs. Trent, herself none too fastidious, was 
rather revolted at the attitude this man assumed 
towards Diana. She had condescended in admit¬ 
ting him to the circle into which she had drifted 
from the one to which she properly belonged. She 
would like to have told him straight how his fatu¬ 
ousness disgusted her, that his familiarity with 
Diana’s name sickened her. Whatever Di may or 
may not have done she had never made a friend 
of Tuck Magargle; that Hazel would have sworn 
on oath. She shrank within herself at sight of his 
puffy white hand. But there was Olga, the insep¬ 
arable, to be considered, and Olga had need of 
what that profitable hand could do. Where there 
was time to be killed, a restless world to be enjoyed, 
pleasure to be picked up how and where it might 

216 


AFTERMATH 


be, what odds his vulgar complacency? As to Olga 
she objected to nothing, provided it or he could be 
made useful. She was speaking to Larry now. 

“You didn't say what you did after Paris.” 

“Oh, the Vans were going to Rome. I say,” with 
greater evidence of interest than he had yet shown, 
“have you ever seen the young Vans?” 

“No. Don’t believe I have. How many are 
there ?” 

“Three, and they took me on. They and Bob 
and Kathie took me on. It was sport. Rome and 
the lakes drove all the Paris mist out of my middle- 
aged eyes.” 

“What lakes?” 

“Maggiore first. Too many tourists there, and 
on Como. We ran up to Garda till they had 
dispersed. Then we went back. D’you know 
Riva?” 

“No. No Italian lakes for me, if you please. 
Give me the French sea coasts.” 

“No,” mused Larry, “I don’t believe you would 
like Riva, Olga.” 

“But he’s not telling you half,” broke in Kath¬ 
leen, “he thought we were getting too much of him, 
so he went off on his own. And the thing that hap¬ 
pened was that he missed us. Didn’t you miss us, 
Larry?” 

“Couldn’t get along without you. Missed the 
young Vans, frightfully. First young Vans of any 
description I had ever known. So I left the lonely 

217 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


villa I'd taken at Cernobbio, with several weeks’ 
rent paid in advance, and joined them.” 

“He motored us through the hill towns. Oh, it 
was Heaven, wasn’t it, Bob? And then we took 
him with us to Egypt.” 

“The Valley of Kings and Tut-anhk-Amen, I sup¬ 
pose! Oh, Larry! And you once a live human 
being!” 

“Depends on the way you look at it, Mrs. Trent, 
on what you call life.” 

“I like to think of life as a w T hizz through a 
maze of jazz,” observed Mrs. Clavering. 

“Rot, Olga. Even you'd get tired of it. How 
many years have we been at it? Let’s see,” counted 
Hazel, “I can go back um—um—counting from 
Hilda Crighton’s wedding three months after 

• n 

mine. 

Kathleen gasped, but Hazel w r ent on: 

“It’s not modern not to talk of these things. I’d 
started my divorce from Bingo—my word! It’s 
ten years!” 

“You’ve not been back to America since, Larry?” 
asked Olga. 

“No.” 

Kathleen, seeing danger in the monosyllabic an¬ 
swer, asked a question that had been on the tip 
of her tongue ever since the dinner began: 

“Has anyone seen the Desmonds?” 

“They’re just back from California. Lost a child 
out there.” 


218 


AFTERMATH 


“Oh, poor Faith, poor Jack. Not Joan?’’ It 
was a distressed Kathleen who asked. 

“No. The boy, Mickey. He inherited consump¬ 
tion from his father.” 

Silence. It w T as broken by Olga. 

“Joan’s being heard of.” 

“Why, she’s nothing but a child.” 

“Seventeen.” 

“What’s she like?” asked Larry, who, since his 
adoption by the Van Dysart children, found chil¬ 
dren of all ages interesting and amusing. 

“Pretty. Paints.” This from Mrs. Claver¬ 
ing. 

“I say! Isn’t that going it pretty strong for sev¬ 
enteen?” asked Tuck Magargle. 

“Idiot,” remarked Hazel, “she paints pictures, 
canvases, w r hat you please. She’s being talked about, 
does things w r ell, shows promise and all that. She’s 
got a picture in the Academy!” 

“WhewM Tell me who she is,” asked young 
Kaye. “Seventeen and in the Academy? That’s 
very wonderful.” 

“She’s one of the persons you are to see, my son,” 
said Lawrence, whose intention had been to intro¬ 
duce young Kaye to the Crightons at his first oppor- 
unity. To bring him to Michael was his reason for 
coming to New York, and Larry wanted the pleas¬ 
ure of doing it himself. 

“That’s corking. When will I see her?” 

“As soon as I can arrange it. You have letters, 

219 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


but I don't intend to leave you to the mercy of 
letters alone.” 

“You see,” Van Dysart explained to Hazel, 
“Kaye has really come over here to take up some 
work for Michael. Only Minton knows what it is, 
but all their interests are along the same channel.” 

“So that’s it. Is Larry interested, too?” 

“I believe so. He’s wonderful, is Larry.” 

“Kathleen! Are you quite mad? Larry Minton 
is just what he was yesterday; aren’t you, Larry?” 

“I suppose I am, Olga, what I was, yesterday. 
It depends rather on what one was, yesterday.” 

“If you remember, he said his trotting days were 
over,” added Van. 

“You loved the opera. Do you still?” Olga 
asked. 

“Some opera. Even that’s changed. I don’t care 
for the modern school.” 

Kaye, eager to hear what he could about Joan, 
broke into the conversation. 

“Tell me about the girl who paints. What does 
she do? Landscapes or what?” 

“Portraits.” 

“I seemed to be only beginning! at seventeen. 
Isn’t she rather unusual?” 

“Not when you consider that Crighton has had 
her in hand since she was four or five years old. 
She has practically lived in his house off and on. 

“Arrived at seventeen! Incredible, incredible,” 
he said to himself. 


220 


AFTERMATH 


“It’s rather a curious story.” Kathleen was 
speaking directly to Kaye, and at the sound of her 
voice he looked up. 

“Em awfully curious about her. Are the Crigh- 
tons any relation?” 

“No. The John Desmonds had two children, 
Joan, and Mickey, named for Michael Crighton, his 
godfather. Jack was frightfully ill, consumption. 
The boy had it, too, so Joan was kept away from 
them. The Crightons had no children of their own, 
and as Michael adores Joan he persuaded the Des¬ 
monds to leave her with them when they went 
to Arizona and later to California. The first time 
she stayed with them it was for four months. Then 
she was sent out to join her parents at Carmel and 
was perfectly happy there. The boy died. His 
death saddened the little thing, besides, her father 
had to go back to Arizona for a time, so she came 
again to the Crightons. After that she stayed with 
them part of every year, though the greater part 
was spent at Carmel. Joan was a lonely child, and 
Michael Crighton conceived the fantastic idea of 
letting her into a dream of his, that he had a son, 
Raphael, that the boy was off at school, and that 
it was a great kindness for Joan to come and fill 
his place. The curious part of it all is that the 
boy had become quite real to Michael, and he made 
him real to Joan. He drew pictures of what he 
should have been, and sent them to Joan from 
time to time as coming from Raphael himself. 

221 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

I believe they keep up an imaginary correspond¬ 
ence.” 

“Keep up? Surely not now?” 

“She has never been told the truth.” 

“Incredible! Incredible!” Over and over the 
word reiterated itself in his brain. 

“It is. We tell Michael, we all tell Michael he 
is making the mistake of a lifetime. But he thinks 
it a sort of game and not only there will be no 
disillusionment when she finds out, but will laugh 
with them over the imaginings. I know Joan, and 
I know he is wrong. Michael knows her and thinks 
he is right. 

“She can’t go on believing in an imaginary boy. 
Boy? He’d be a man almost.” 

“The circumstances of her life have made it easy 
enough and simple, too. Crighton has made an ideal 
of this son, so lovable that I, too, am half in love 
with him,” laughed Kathleen. 

“But, great heavens, it will spoil her for anything 
less!” Donald exclaimed. 

“That’s the point. Michael refuses to see it. 
He says it will give her the highest standard, and 
that she’ll never be deceived into loving any one 
less worthy than the perfect type builded by him 
in her heart!” 

“I don’t get it.” 

“My dear, no convent could guard its bairns 
more strictly than do the combined forces of the 
Desmonds and Crightons hold Joan,” volunteered 
Mrs. Trent. 


222 


AFTERMATH 


“But what about Mrs. Crighton? You haven’t 
mentioned her. Is she in sympathy with this— 
whim—of her husband’s?” asked Magargle. 

“Only direct threat on the part of the powerful 
ruler of her house has kept her silent,” said Olga. 
“That’s another story that has its interest, believe 
me, but some day our gentle Hilda is going to break 
out, and when she does, there’ll be the deuce to pay. 
By the way, I saw her yesterday. Forgot to men¬ 
tion it.” 

“Any news?” 

“Some. She said Faith was beginning to think 
about sending Joan abroad to study. But that’s as 
much as she knew. She only told me by way of 
letting off steam. She didn’t use the words, but I 
saw that if she had to continue Michael’s fictions 
every time Joan showed up, she’d lose her mind. 
She did say her nerves were on edge.” 

“Oh, was that all?” 

“I say,” said Larry, “if we don’t make a start 
we’ll miss the curtain.” 

“What play?” 

“ ‘Sweet Nell of Old Drury,’ with every Barry¬ 
more descendant that is on the stage today.” 

“Why, man, it opens tonight, and you’ve had 
this up your sleeve all the time and didn’t tell?” 

“I wanted you to enjoy all my party from begin¬ 
ning to end. I may tell you now it’s my debut and 
farewell, for I sail as soon as I’ve turned young 
Kaye over to the house of Crighton. Ready? 
Righto! Let’s go.” 


223 


CHAPTER XIV 


MATSUO TAKES ACTION 

I MPERTURBABLE, expressionless as always, 
Matsuo stood before his master. 

“I now leave Mr. Crighton’s service.” 

“Isn’t this rather sudden?” 

“Time has come for Matsuo to return to Japan.” 
“Was there a fixed time? I need you. I am 
satisfied with you. No one understands the garden 
end of my work as you do. I’ve never been in 
the habit of asking my employees to stay when they 
want to go. Just now what I have for you to do 
is important. I kept you on when you asked to 
stay. What will you do about it?” 

“I will get you a Japanese boy. He knows as I 
know. He is just come to New York. He is the 
same as Matsuo.” 

“Does he speak English?” 

“He speaks better English than I when I came.” 
“Does he understand the work in detail as you 
do?” 

“Just as I do. He learned where I learned.” 
“When do you propose to go?” 

“This is Monday. I must start to California 

224 


MATSUO TAKES ACTION 


Wednesday. The Wednesday after, I sail. I have 
the passage.” 

“Then you will finish what you have begun. You 
have today and tomorrow, and the work in the con¬ 
servatory at my house is waiting. The last bulbs 
are ready for packing. I may be obliged to send 
you out to Roslyn with some of them. And—by the 
way—if you must go, you must; that is your own 
affair, but I shall be sorry to lose you.” 

“I thank you, Mr. Crighton.” 

He hesitated a moment, then said: 

“Some day Mr. Crighton will understand much 
about Matsuo that he has not known. Much there 
is to be explained. But I cannot tell what it is.” 

“Whenever you are ready to tell, then you will 
speak,” said Michael kindly. “I believe you will 
do w T hat seems best to you. Oh”—as the man 
started out—“it will not be necessary to dis¬ 
turb Miss Joan. She will be painting in the con¬ 
servatory and wants to finish what she is doing be¬ 
fore she sails on Saturday. She can’t finish if she 
should be interrupted. Go to the conservatory en¬ 
closure through the pantry.” 

“Very well, Mr. Crighton.” 

When he had gone, Michael wondered how much 
the man felt at going, or did he feel at all. The 
circumstances of his service had been more than 
unusual. All the years—and he could leave like this, 
scarcely a word, barely a notice. He would have 
gone at once without finishing what he had 

225 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


had started, had Michael allowed it. Curious that 
he should have applied for work as butler. Appar¬ 
ently whatever he undertook he did well, but had 
never been butler before. He had a fair knowl¬ 
edge of English when he entered the Crighton’s 
service, and had seemed to improve it each day. He 
lost no opportunity to study the language, the cus¬ 
toms of the country, the country itself. In Michael’s 
house Hana had appeared out of place, the few 
glimpses he had had of her showed this. But with 
Diana she had found a niche better adapted to her 
personality. There she directed the household, 
looked after Diana’s personal needs and took care of 
Passiflore. As far as they were concerned, Matsuo’s 
going solved a problem. Michael had dreaded Di¬ 
ana’s return to town with the Japanese woman and 
child. Now with Matsuo on his way to Japan, 
Diana and the others in Italy taking Joan with 
them, he felt less apprehension. 

One phase of the man’s search for his wife had 
been incomprehensible. Why had he conducted it 
so secretly? 

The first wild newspaper reports had been hushed 
by magic, and Matsuo had never consented to the 
help Michael had urged. But Michael did not know 
that the marriage too was shrouded in mystery and 
that this had been one cause of Hana’s grief. 

Then his thoughts passed to Hildegarde and her 
indifference to everything that took place under her 
roof, indifference to his interests, to his wishes. 

22 6 


MATSUO TAKES ACTION 


Above all she seemed indifferent to the young girl 
who lived with them and worked at her painting 
and drawing a few months out of every year. But 
here Michael was mistaken. There was no indif¬ 
ference in Hilda's heart to Joan, or Faith or any¬ 
thing that was Faith's. 

Some mischievous spirit urged her, ever and al¬ 
ways to prick and sting, and hurt Joan where she 
could, provided always that Michael was out of 
earshot. Clear-sighted Joan bore with it. Some¬ 
times she understood, sometimes she did not, but 
she knew Hildegarde. Under bitterest onslaught 
she kept silent out of loyalty to Michael, and love 
for Raphael. Everything would have been all right 
if she had told her mother whose loyalty to Michael 
was strong as her own. To Faith belonged the 
rare talent of mending without doing additional 
hurt. But Joan was afraid her mother might keep 
her away from Hilda’s house, so she never told. 

On this same Monday, Hilda, after an unusual 
run of poor cards at bridge the night before, 
woke with a frightful headache. Everything irri¬ 
tated her; Joan had elected to do a picture of Judy 
in color, to be finished before she sailed on Satur¬ 
day, and Michael had warned her that the loathe- 
some Japanese would be about the conservatory 
during the greater part of the day, she had better 
keep to the other part of the house. With all this, 
Hazel Trent, her new acquisition, Tuck Magargle, 
and that enchanting English boy, Donald Kaye were 

227 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


coming to lnuch and an afternoon’s auction. She 
expected to make up her losses of the night before. 
But Joan always brought her bad luck, it was noth¬ 
ing short of devilish that she must be here now. 
Nor had she the slightest wish to bring Joan and 
young Kaye together. True, the girl was just sev¬ 
enteen, and ignorant of the world and its ways. But 
Kaye, too, was young, not over twenty-four. 

A knock at the door, and her maid with a break¬ 
fast tray. A note in Michael’s handwriting lay be¬ 
side the coffee pot. 

“Had expected to be in Roslyn for the day. I 
find that unexpected circumstances will keep me in 
town. If you are going to be at home I will lunch 
with you and Joan. Michael.” 

“My God!” she almost shrieked aloud, “some¬ 
thing’s got to be done.” 

How go about it? Her only hope lay in Joan. 
Perhaps she could be induced to take Michael away 
somewhere, anywhere, but get him away before the 
others came. At any rate there would be no harm 
trying. 

Leaving the tray untouched, she rang for the 
maid to bring her a trailing thing of blue and 
mauve easy to get into. There was no time to be 
lost. Joan would have arrived, of course, Joan 
who was apt to come perching on the doorstep at 
dawn. 

Meanwhile, down in the conservatory, Judy, 
grown loquatious with age, was literally filled with 

228 


MATSUO TAKES ACTION 


conversation. Apparently he wanted to make up 
for lost time, giving Joan all the gossip of the 
months she’d been in California. And wildly cir¬ 
cling both, went Dingle Bey, barking, snapping, wag¬ 
ging his tail frantic with delight in Joan, Judy, the 
whole of life. 

“Judy, darling! I’ve come home. Oh, it’s only 
for a day or two, but here I am. And I’m going 
to do your picture. What do you think of that? 

“Raphy.” Sagacious bird! 

“Yes, yes. Raphy is in Rome, where I am go¬ 
ing to be. If he likes this portrait very much I will 
give it to him, then copy it for myself. I can’t be 
separated from you two whole years without your 
picture at least, dear old bird.” 

Suddenly, without preamble, deep guttural sounds 
issued from Judy’s throat, and he launched forth 
in Portuguese. It was just as well Joan’s education 
in language was limited. 

“Why, what’s wrong, dear? You never spoke 
like that to me before. Have I hurt your feelings? 
Tell me.” 

But the parrot’s answer was to fly back to his 
perch out of Joan’s reach, stretch his neck as far 
as he could in the direction of the door and hiss as 
he had heard the sailors of Provincetown do, many 
and many a time. 

“Stop it!” Hilda, imperious, furious, stood in 
the doorway. 

“Oh, Aunt Hilda.” Joan was on her feet in an 

229 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

instant and went to greet her. It was the first time 
she had seen her since arriving the day before, for 
Michael alone had met them at the train and planned 
what promised a happy time with Judy, the easel, 
and Raphy’s unseen presence. 

“Oh! You here, Joan? I didn't know. How- 
de-do?” Joan kissed the proffered cheek with what 
grace she could. 

“What on earth have you been doing to my bird 
to put him in such a beastly temper? So early in 
the morning, too.” 

“Why, Aunt Hildegarde, we were just as happy 
as possible. I had only been here a few minutes. 
I was detained at home and couldn’t come as early 
as I wanted. It’s not early, indeed no. It’s nearly 
eleven. He never spoke Portuguese to me before 
in all his life.” 

“Perhaps his affections have changed since you 
went away. Affections sometimes do, even those 
of a parrot.” 

Jo an walked over to the perch, and held out her 
hand for Judy, and he promptly stepped into it. 

“Not for me. Look.” 

Hildegarde burst into a peal of metallic laughter, 
quite as disconcerting as Judy’s sudden outbreak. 
Then again, curiously he began to growl and mut¬ 
ter. 

“See for yourself,” said Hilda, “something un¬ 
doubtedly went wrong before I came in.” She 
seated herself on a marble bench, drawing her dra- 

230 


MATSUO TAKES ACTION 


peries about her as was her way. Under the great 
acacia plant she herself was not unlike a brilliant 
tropical bird. 

“What was it?” She spoke sharply enough. 

“Why, nothing, Aunt Hilda. We’d been playing 
together and Dingle was rushing about barking and 
laughing at us with his mouth wide open—why, 
where is Dingle?” 

Slowly out from his retreat in the corner came 
the little dog. He circled around outside Hilda’s 
reach, then stood in front of Joan, wagging his tail 
and looking up into her face. He then sidled as 
far away from the creature on the bench as possible, 
and gathered his tiny body close to Joan. His re¬ 
proachful look in Hildegarde’s direction seemed to 
express that no fault was to be found with his play¬ 
mate. 

“I suppose he ran away and hid when Judyl 
began to swear,” said Joan. 

“And why should Judy swear?” 

It took all the strength of the young girl’s charac¬ 
ter to keep from telling the truth. Joan would like 
to have said that the bird only forgot his manners 
when Hildegarde came within his ken, to have asked 
her please to go away and let her begin her work. 
But—she was Raphael’s mother. 

“I ask you what were you talking about?” 

“Raphy.” Joan smiled then. “I was telling 
Judy that soon I would be in Rome where Raphy 
is, and that if he really wants the portrait I’m to 

231 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


do of Judy, he shall have it and I’ll copy myself 
another.” 

“Oh, my God! Am I to endure this fiction to 
the end?” 

Down crashed the box of precious bulbs from 
the Orient. They scattered out from the enclosure 
where Matsuo had been packing them and rolled 
to Hildegarde’s feet. 

White and shaking in her rage she rose. 

“You—you-” She pointed an outstretched 

hand towards Matsuo. 

“What are you doing in my presence? Sweep 
up the bulbs and get out of my house. I will not 
have you here, in spite of any one. Go.” 

Joan, horror-struck at the look in Hildegarde’s 
face, had sunk to her knees, holding the little fright¬ 
ened dog tight to her breast. For an instant she 
thought Hilda would strike the man. But Matsuo 
was bowing an apology. 

“I beg Mrs. Crighton’s pardon. The master sent 
me to the enclosure to finish some work. Madam 
is not often down at this hour. Perhaps some 
sound startled me as I lifted the box. It dropped, 
and the bulbs spilled. I will now return to the 
enclosure and finish what I had begun.” 

“I’ll see you in Hades before you stay another 
moment. Get out now” 

Ominous, portentious, snarling sound somewhere 
out of mid-air. Had the woman been wise she 
herself would have left the room, and at once. 

232 



MATSUO TAKES ACTION 


But her temper, never certain, was now at white 
heat. Joan had read her correctly. She was angry 
enough to have struck Matsuo. Her worst pas¬ 
sions aroused, she stood glaring at him, while one 
by one he picked up the precious things that had 
scattered to the four corners of the conservatory. 

“Aunt Hilda,” pleaded Joan, forgetting her fear 
in anxiety for Matsuo. “Please don’t scold him. 
He is going away, too, all the way to Japan. Uncle 
Michael wanted him to finish the packing he had 
begun, and there was not space enough at the office. 
He told me all about it when he said I was to come 
today for Judy’s portrait. It was all my fault. 
Really it was.” 

The propitiating smile would have won any heart 
but Hilda’s. 

“Your fault? Certainly it was your fault, with 
your eternal prattle of fable and fiction.” No use 
trying to stop her now. The thing had been on 
the tip of her tongue for years. There was just 
one chance that Joan might not understand. Or 
something might intervene. Things did, sometimes. 
Then Hildegarde took a step closer to Joan and 
the girl unconsciously shrank back. 

“I’m sick of all this nonsense. I’m sick of pre¬ 
tense and lies, and imaginations that fill the house 
with ghosts that stalk about it night and day. Now 
I am going to tell you the truth and you can take 
it or leave it as you choose. There never was a 
Raphael. My husband invented him simply to 

233 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


amuse you. There never has been any child of 
ours in this house or any other for the simple reason 
that I won’t have one. Is that clear? No one 
thought you could have been such a little idiot as 
to believe-” 

A wail from Joan stopped her. The girl threw 
her arms across her face as if Hildegarde’s blow 
had fallen indeed, not on Matsuo, but on her. It 
was then that Dingle Bey, tail between his legs, 
slunk from the room and creeping, crawling, found 
his way to the master’s library where he cowered, 
shaking, against the door. 

For at Joan’s cry, Judy, with one diabolical shriek 
had flown at Hilda’s eyes. So raging had she been, 
so mad with fury, she had forgotten the bird's pres¬ 
ence, and the rumbling of the storm. 

Quick as with a flash of revealing light she re¬ 
membered the stories that had followed the parrot 
from Provincetown; how he had blinded, almost 
killed the man responsible for the death of his mate, 
and how to save its life the bird had been smuggled 
out of Cape Cod. 

She had been cruel to Matsuo, he who had it 
in his power to help her now. But why should he? 
Joan! That was it. The bird loved Joan. She 
would give her own life if need be. 

“Help me—Joan—help!” gasped Hilda. 

“Judy! Let go. Joan says let go!” 

But the frantic bird had been waiting longer 
than any of them dreamed to get. his claws where 

234 



MATSUO TAKES ACTION 


they were. Now he was not to be dispoiled of 
his prey. With all his power he held on, biting at 
Hilda’s eyes, her hands, her arms, and lastly at her 
throat, till she fell weak and cowering on the floor. 
Matsuo had rushed out through the dining room. 
Hildegarde saw her last hope go with him. But 
he was back in a moment, something that glittered 
in his hand. 

Joan had not waited. Caution to the winds she 
had flung herself down beside Hildegarde in a fren¬ 
zied effort to wrest the bird away, when an authori¬ 
tative voice called, “Get back!” and she obeyed. 
It was all over in a moment. There was a flash 
when an arm shot out, the parrot’s grip relaxed, 
the brilliant head turned once to where Joan sat 
on the floor, petrified with fear. Then, splendid 
plumage crumpling like a bundle of limp rags, Judy 
lay still. 

Joan crept over to see if Hildegarde were stir¬ 
ring. Then she gasped: 

“Uncle Michael. Get Uncle Michael.” 

But Michael had let himself into the house, gone 
to the library, and found the little dog cringing at 
the door. Dingle Bey clambered to his master’s 
knee and whimpered. 

“Why, Dingle, old fellow, what’s the trouble? 
You look as if some one had struck you.” At that 
moment Michael saw Matsuo’s face, not expres¬ 
sionless this time. 

“What is it?” 

235 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Come, sir—to the conservatory. Mrs. Crigh- 
ton is hurt. The bird-” 

“Judy?” 

“Flew at her-” 

Michael was out of the room and in the con¬ 
servatory before the man finished his sentence. The 
jewelled dagger Hilda used as a paper cutter lay 
on the floor beside her, red and wet. 

Michael lifted his wife tenderly in his arms. 

And Joan stood staring, staring at him as if he 
w r ere a stranger. 


236 




CHAPTER XV 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


H 


OW long a time it was, or how short, Joan 
did not know. She moved over after a while, 
hardly conscious of what she did, to where Judy 
lay all crumpled on the floor. She lifted the spread 
of resplendant wing, and held it to her breast. 
They had been friends and playmates twelve years 
out of the short span of her life, playmates when 
there were no other playmates. Uncle Michael had 
invented Raphael to amuse her! 

Judy had been a friend closer than most, for 
Judy’s friendship was based on love and compan¬ 
ionship. Judy had nothing to gain, nothing to lose. 
Friends sometimes misunderstood. Not Judy. 
Why had he done what he did? 

“Oh, Judy, Judy, I see now. I do, indeed.” 
Judy had done this thing for the same reason that 
Matsuo once long ago had dropped a bowl of fruit 
shattering behind Aunt Hilda’s chair, for the same 
reason that had sent the bulbs flying in every direc¬ 
tion today. It had all been to keep her from telling 
about Raphy. Better, far better to have let her 
out with it in the first place. 

237 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


So, with her heart aching, hurting more than 
anything had ached or hurt before, she stared dry¬ 
eyed. 

When Aunt Hilda woke in her room she was 
going to be very angry with Judy. She would have 
him flung to the dust bin or burned up. And he, 
the one who had been Uncle Michael, would do 
nothing to prevent it. Of course Judy ought not 
to have been so wild. But he was only a bird, 
and Aunt Hildegarde was a human being who should 
never have lost her temper as she did. It was the 
first time the child had ever seen any one in the 
thrall of uncontrolled rage, and the very thought of 
of it terrified her. But there was a horror, a dis¬ 
may, greater even than that, a thing she tried with 
all her young might to put away until she should 
be more fit to face and endure it. Raphael had 
never been born. He had never lived. He had 
never gone away to school, nor to Rome. She 
was not to see him in Rome. Raphael, her shining 
knight, had never loved her. 

The man who had been Uncle Michael had lied 
to her. Not once, but all her life. Only he? Every 
one she knew. The Trent woman. She remem¬ 
bered her sardonic smile when Hildegarde referred 
to “Michael’s little obsession.” She had asked what 
obsession was, and they laughed at her. Then she 
had looked it up in the dictionary: “Being vexed 
or besieged by some foreign personality.” The 
definition had no sense. It had meant nothing to 

238 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


her, then. But she had been the dupe of it all. 
She remembered with loathing that the one they 
called Olga would deliberately set herself to get 
Joan to speak of him, and she did speak, with bated 
breath, rising color, a heart that beat, of a myth, 
a phantom, a creature that was nothing. 

Then, her lips paled. Her mother, her father, 
what had they done about it? In minutest detail 
it came back to her. Nothing that in any way 
affected the Raphael she had thought to know, was 
forgotten. 

“It’s queer of Uncle Michael.” 

“What, darling?” 

“Not ever to have Raphy home. I can under¬ 
stand Aunt Hildegarde because she doesn’t love chil¬ 
dren. But Uncle Michael says his house is big and 
empty, and so it is. Yet he never has Raphy come 
home.” 

“Perhaps it’s a vagary of his, dear,” Mummie 
had explained. “Artists are imaginative, full of 
dreams. Let him be as he is. Some day you will 
understand.” 

That was it, the day had come, now she under¬ 
stood. Mummie had not exactly told a lie, but 
wasn’t it “aiding and abetting?” She had gotten 
around the truth somehow and had stood up for 
Uncle Michael. What had Daddy said, when the 
last pictures came? 

“Whimsey old Michael. He’s done it well.” 

“Uncle Michael didn’t take the photographs, 

239 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Daddy. Surely he did not. He’s not even got a 
camera.” 

“He drew the pictures, child.” 

“No, Daddy. They are photographs. Don’t you 
see?” 

Daddy hadn’t laughed. He had taken her eager 
little face between his two hands, such wasted, slen¬ 
der hands: 

“Maybe it was a whimsey of his to keep the 
drawings and have them copied by a photographer 
for my little girl. He’s a fanciful Uncle Michael 
and we love him for it, sometimes we feel sorry for 
him for it, Mummie and I.” 

“What’s whimsey, Daddy? Is it a bad thing?” 

“Only a perplexing thing at times,” he had an¬ 
swered. 

She had not liked to ask him any more ques¬ 
tions, poor Daddy who was so often tired. But 
when she could be alone she had gotten down the 
big dictionary again and looked up all the words, 
“vagary,” “perplexing,” and found their explanation 
as puzzling as the words themselves. Till now she 
had not thought of these puzzling things, nor that 
she had asked about them. But it all came back. 
Her mother and father had let him who had been 
Uncle Michael play his little pretense without spoil¬ 
ing it. But they had never actually told her the 
thing was true. Back and back she went over the 
years. Oh, why had no one told her the truth when 
she began to grow out of childish games? 

240 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


Who had written the letters, Raphy’s letters, her 
most cherished possessions? 

Then she made up her mind. She w T ould slip 
out of this house where she had been so foolishly, 
blindly, childishly happy, and never as long as she 
lived would she return to it. It would not be safe 
to leave Judy behind. They would do anything 
Aunt Hilda asked now. So she lifted the fallen 
mass of plumage in her arms and slipped out 
through the wide doors into the dining room, where 
the table was set for seven people, on through the 
broad hallway to the front door. She rather won¬ 
dered that no one was about, to see her go, not 
even the man who had replaced Matsuo. She did 
not guess that Hildegarde was ill, indeed so ill that 
all the household had been thrown out of routine. 
Those who were not actively engaged under doc¬ 
tor’s orders were gathered in the servant’s hall dis¬ 
cussing the possibilities of what might happen next. 
As Joan closed the door behind her, the clock struck 
the half hour. Eyes unseeing, barely conscious of 
what she did, or where she was going, bareheaded, 
the dead parrot in her arms, she started down the 
steps straight into a youth who was flying up two 
at a time. 

“Oh!” from both at once. Then the boy took 
off his hat, and the sun shone full on his fair 
hair. 

“I am sorry. Oughtn't to have been rushing up 
like that. Didn’t notice any one was coming down. 

241 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Hope I didn’t hurt you?” he inquired anxiously. 
But Joan had eyes only for Judy. 

“No. It’s my parrot. He is dead. I am tak¬ 
ing him to bury him. You could not hurt him 
now,” she said piteously with a premonitory 
trembling of the lips. “No one could hurt him 
now.” 

Then to her own distress, Joan began to cry. 
And the more she tried to stop it, the more it be¬ 
came impossible. She could neither stem the tears 
nor bring Judy back to life, so she buried her face 
in the blue and green of his feathers and tried to 
stifle her sobs on the mangled breast. 

“Oh, I say, is there anything I can do? I’m most 
awfully sorry. Let me ring a bell and call a maid 
or something.” 

“Oh, no, please. The threat to call a maid was 
the one suggestion sufficiently potent to startle the 
tears away. 

“You see they don’t know I’m taking Judy. I’d 
rather they wouldn’t till he is safely buried. Then 
they can’t get at him. They will never know where 
he is buried. Even Aunt Hildegarde wouldn’t want 
him dug up.” 

“If—if I can do anything, I’m Donald Kaye. I 
like b-birds and beautiful things. I might perhaps 
m-make it a box, or something.” 

“Oh, thank you. You are very good. But I 
couldn’t possibly let any one do anything for him 
but me. Besides, there isn’t time. We are sailing 

242 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


Saturday. I’ve got to do everything at once.” She 
raised her eyes, and he saw the blue stars reflected 
in a sea of tears. She even smiled a little when 
she said: 

“I do appreciate your offer to make a box.” 

Uncertain what to do next he glanced up and 
down the Avenue. 

“If there were time, before the others came, I’d 
like to carry her—him—the bird—I think you said 
it’s name is Judy?” 

“Him. But I don’t think you’ll get your lunch, 
because Aunt Hildegarde had a fight with him, and 
he had to be stabbed with her paper cutter to get 
him away from her, and though the table is beau¬ 
tifully set with flowers and things I’m almost quite 
sure there won’t be any party. But you’d better 
go on in, anyway, and see Un-” her lips tight¬ 

ened, “Mr. Crighton.” 

“Are you going to carry—Judy—like that? And 
you know you haven’t got any hat on.” 

“Oh!” she put her free hand up to her head. 
“So I haven’t.” 

Where was her hat? Back where she had flung 
it, joyously, so joyously, on a tree in the conserv¬ 
atory. And never as long as she lived would she 
put her foot in the house again. Once more, trag¬ 
edy. 

“Why a hat? Nothing matters, nothing matters 
any more.” 

Without further good-bye, without even a 

243 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


thought of him to whom she had told her trouble, 
she walked down the steps onto the pavement and 
down the Avenue while the few people who passed 
her stared and turned to watch. She was only con¬ 
scious of the pain in her breast. 

“What an extraordinary-” At that instant a 

taxi drove up depositing Olga Clavering, Hazel 
Trent, and Tuck Magargle who stopped to pay the 
fare. Following the line of young Kaye’s spellbound 
eyes, Olga caught a glimpse of Joan as she turned 
Eastwards. 

“Well,” she laughed. “Trust Hildegarde for find¬ 
ing a way of losing the child for the day. I thought 
she would. But how peculiarly she looked!” 

“Yes. That’s because she hasn’t on a hat.” 

“Why not, per Dio?” 

“She didn't tell me, but I gathered she’d for¬ 
gotten to put it on and when I reminded her she 
said it didn’t matter.” 

“Something is decidedly wrong. Joan Desmond 
may be a dreamer but she has some sense.” 

“Joan Desmond? Is that Joan Desmond? And 
I didn’t know her.” 

“Who did you think it was?” 

“I don’t believe I stopped to think at all. Wish 
I’d known. The girl that paints portraits. I played 
with her years ago, way out at Carmel. She was 
too young to remember me. But I can’t forget 
how wild with joy she was to find children to play 
with, when she came.” 


244 



MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


“Evidently the same. They have a place at 
Carmel. Why do you suppose no one comes to the 
door? Did you ring?” 

“Oh, no. I believe I forgot to ring. She said 
there might be no luncheon. Something about her 
parrot, killed, after deadly combat. I didn’t quite 
get it all ” 

Mrs. Trent looked at Mrs. Clavering and they 
both laughed. 

k ‘It would take more than combat or the death 
of that parrot to keep Hilda from a game of bridge.” 

The door opened and the man came outside. 

“Mr. Crighton is very sorry. There has been an 
accident. Mrs. Crighton is in a dangerous condi¬ 
tion; in fact she is still unconscious. Mr. Crighton 
regrets, but there can be no luncheon today.” 

For once in her life Hazel asked in a voice whose 
concern was not altogether insincere: 

“I hope it is only slight, that there is no real 
danger?” 

“We can’t tell yet, madam. There is to be a 
consultation at four o’clock.” 

Donald Kaye wrote a few words on his card, 
handing it to the man. “Please give this to Mr. 
Crighton. I will hold myself in readiness for any 
service.” 

“Thank you, sir. I will give it to him at once.” 

The three who had come together, stopped a 
down-going taxi and drove off to lunch at Sherry’s, 
but Kaye walked alone to his hotel, thinking of the 

245 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


girl with the parrot, and of much concerning life 
and death, and the way of doing both. 

Up in Hildegarde's room, darkness and silence. 
Part of the time Michael sat looking at the face 
on the pillow, poor mutilated face that had been 
too vain, poor bandaged eyes that had seen too 
much. Then he would pace the floor while the doc¬ 
tor w r atched. The unnatural flush that had suffused 
her cheeks gradually faded, leaving a dark spot close 
to the right temple. The marks about her throat 
were black. An hour passed. Two hours. 

“Why doesn't the nurse come?” 

“I did not send for one.” 

“But she’s so ill, doctor. Let me telephone for 
one.” 

“Yes. She is very ill. But unless you wish to 
have a nurse in the house, it will not be necessary. 
1 will stay while she needs me.” 

“You don’t mean-?” 

“Only a short time left, Mr. Crighton.” 

“God!” The cry was wrung from the soul, not 
of the man Michael, who knew Hilda for what she 
had been, but from the very heart of the boy w r ho 
at twenty-one had married her. 

Whether this, or another cause roused her, she 
stirred slightly and felt for his hand. 

“She’s awake, doctor; don’t you think she might 
like a minister? Hadn't you better call up St. Giles’ 
rectory? That is her church.” 

“No, please, Michael.” The voice was feeble, 

246 



MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


but the words distinct. The doctor bent over her. 
His voice was more cheerful than it had been. 

“Better, far better than I had hoped. If you wish 
I’ll stay in the next room. I’ll telephone a nurse, 
one who will come at once.” 

“I’d feel safer if you would,” said poor Michael. 
Then he turned to Hilda. 

“That’s good, old lady. Couldn’t sleep all day, 
could you?” 

She lifted a frail hand and stroked his cheek. 

“Tears, Michael? Mustn’t cry,” the while tears 
from her own hurt eyes fell fast beneath the ban¬ 
dages. Came a whisper so faint he had to bend to 
hear it. 

“How long?” 

“Sweetheart, I can’t hear you.” 

Weakly the hand went up to her throat. 

“It hurts,” she said, then, a little louder: “How 
long do they give me?” 

“The doctor is telephoning now for a nurse to 
come and take care of you till you are all well. 
We’ll get you up in no time.” 

“Don’t be silly, Michael. I know.” 

“A tussle with a bird isn’t going to put you out 
like that, dearest.” 

“That wouldn’t. Though I’d be a sight for the 
rest of my life. I should hate that. It’s another 
thing. Look.” Feebly she lifted the sheet from her 
left arm. “I can’t move it. But don’t worry.” 

Again silence, this time for fully fifteen minutes. 

247 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


She might have been asleep. He could not tell. 
He noticed how dark the marks along the temples 
had grown. 

“Judy.” 

“Joan has Judy.” 

“I don’t want him killed. He was not to blame.” 

“No, dear. That’s all right. Whatever you 
want. But I couldn’t have him around now, you 
know.” 

“I made him angry. He couldn’t help himself. I 
could have helped myself. It’s always been like that. 
I blamed every one, everything, but me. I never 
was willing to do that. I knew all the time I was 
wrong, but I just let loose. Give Judy to Joan to 
keep?” 

“Yes, sweetheart.” 

Helpful to everyone who had ever asked his 
help, he was powerless in face of Hildegarde’s 
great journey. She must go alone. And no one 
better than Michael knew how unprepared she was. 

Nothing packed, nothing ready, hands useless, 
heart empty of innocence or charitableness, shallow 
soul, fruitless mind, a life of selfishness. Hilde¬ 
garde’s equipment with which to stand before the 
throne of the most high Judge was pitifully inade¬ 
quate. And because Michael loved her and she was 
his, he would have gladly died to spare her what 
she must pass through. That part was inevitable. 
One might shirk it for a few short hours, delay it 
perhaps while the doctor’s skill holds good, but 

248 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the fact stands—death is, and the Judge is the all¬ 
knowing God. 

If, for a while, Michael’s love for Hilda had 
been shocked into a sort of coma, not through his 
fault, never through Michael’s fault, the deathly 
lethargy had passed. His love was alive, awake, 
alert as it had never been before. His young heart 
yearned for the young wife, Hilda, in whom his 
youth had trusted. 

Through his brain shot a thought that sent the 
perspiration in cold drops to his forehead. What 
of the souls to whom Hildegarde had denied exist¬ 
ence? What of them? Would their shadows greet 
her with reproach for their extinction? Out of 
depression the answer came. Not even the shad¬ 
ows. Only the emptiness. 

Had she ever been sorry? Was it in her to re¬ 
gret—anything? Michael prayed as he had never 
prayed before. But the burden of his prayer was 
echo of an Agony long ago: 

“Father, forgive her. She knew not what she 
did.” 

A slight stir, then the doctor’s voice: 

“The nurse is here. Shall she remain with Mrs. 
Crighton, or would you rather be alone?” 

It took a moment for Michael to collect himself, 
his soul was steeped in the earnestness with which 
he prayed. 

“No, not yet. I think she is asleep and I would 
rather be alone.” 


249 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


It did not take a second glance for the quick- 
sighted doctor to perceive that the face on the pil¬ 
low, to a certain extent, had relaxed. 

“Yes, she is sleeping. It is the one thing that can 
help. And she will be stronger when she wakes. 
If you see any change, call me.” 

“You think there might be hope? After this 
sleep?” 

“Not for long now, Mr. Crighton. Perhaps a 
few hours, perhaps less.” 

“I thought the deep sleep would help,” said poor 
Michael, and turned away to watch and listen while 
he could. 

“It will help, indeed it will, and she’ll be stronger 
and quite lucid when she wakens. And, Mr. Crigh¬ 
ton-” the kindly man hesitated. No matter what 

the circumstances it was always just as hard. “If 
you have anything you want to do, or say, use what 
time there is. No,” in answer to the stricken, 
questioning eyes, “it can’t hurt her.” 

Then the doctor went out into Hilda’s morning 
room where the nurse sat waiting to be called. 

“Then I must speak quickly, Michael, mustn’t 
I?” 

“Oh, beloved, I didn’t know-” 

“I heard. It’s better I should have heard. Come 
close, give me your hand, your strong, helpful hand. 
It may hold me back a little while, perhaps. I’ve 
got so much to say.” Then she seemed to rest and 
gather strength before going on. 

250 




MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


“I might have been asleep. I don’t know. Wak¬ 
ing, sleeping, all mixed up. But I dreamed—oh, 
Michael, the procession passed right by my bed.” 

“Procession, sweetheart?” 

“Yes. Little children knocking at the door of 
women—like me. I saw their eager faces, smiling, 
anxious, alive with love. Their hands, such tiny 
hands, were full of something. I couldn’t see at 
first what it was. They pressed it to their breasts 
to keep it hidden like a birthday surprise, or Christ¬ 
mas. There was mischievousness in some of their 
faces. Michael, are you listening?” 

“Yes, oh, yes, beloved.” She must not hear him 
cry. But the one good hand that crept back to his 
cheek, felt the falling tears. 

“Strange how a dream can hold so many things 
in a single instant. It’s as if Eternity were a flash 
of vision and Time the thing that blinds one.” 

“Hilda! Where did you learn that?” 

“The children. They made things quite clear. 
Things I might have known before if I had only let 
them in. These were what they carried so tight to 
their breasts. They came one by one, and yet it 
happened all at the same time, and each one showed 
me a glimpse of Truth. They showed me strange 
things, very strange things.” 

“Dear heart, I know. But rest a little. Your 
hand is feverish, and—I’m afraid for you.” 

“No, Michael. There’ll be a long rest. There’s 
so little time left and I must tell you. Their small 

25 1 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


bodies were not what we call perfect, nor were their 
minds all that you and I would want the minds of 
our own to be. But there was clarity because of the 
spirit that lives and is whole. I learned that. One, 
limping, lamed, came smiling at the thing in his 
hand.” 

“What was it, Hilda?” 

“Mother-love. The poorer they are in body the 
richer they are in mother-love. That’s why mothers 
care most for the afflicted ones. You’ve no idea, old 
Michael, how strong that love can be. As they 
passed, they opened their hands, all of them, and 
showed me what they held. The ones whose minds 
were not to be strong carried the most exquisite 
tenderness close to their hearts. The well ones 
helped the others, but not one was conscious of be¬ 
ing less desirable than the most perfect ones. Each 
carried love and I saw how love is everything. And 
talents! Such talents, Michael. I saw a little hunch¬ 
back girl, not white—I couldn’t make her out. But 
she was happy in sculpting people who were straight. 
I saw the music-makers. They showed me how they 
made their music. And a group of dancers like the 
wood nymphs of our playdays. But something 
happened.” 

“What, dear love?” 

“They came trooping eagerly—joyously. But the 
look in their eyes changed, first to surprise, then 
fear, then—and that was worst of all, disappoint¬ 
ment. Their little hands fell open and the beau- 

252 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


tiful gifts of love and hope and faith, and all the 
talents in the world dropped at their feet, the feet 
had been so sure before, now timorous and halting. 
The birthday surprises were broken, Michael. I 
saw how gifts that would have meant everything to 
future generations were all lost.” 

She lay still for a time. He thought she slept 
but she was gathering strength to tell the rest while 
there was time. 

“Listen, Michael, darling. I’ve got to tell you— 
because the day may come when you can prevent 
other people from being what I’ve been. The little 
faces that had smiled at me were struck with deso¬ 
lation. Heaven had been opened to them through 
the will of God. Man’s will opposed to His had 
forever shut them out from Heaven. 

“Oh, my dear one, it was I and all the men and 
women, who, feeling as I felt, doing as I did, be¬ 
cause we refused to let them pass, have been barred 
out from an earthly Paradise by a flaming sword 
of our own making.” 

She turned and buried her poor face in an enfold¬ 
ing arm. As best he could, he comforted her. Re¬ 
gret had come too late. 

After awhile she spoke again. 

“God is giving me strength to tell this to help the 
others. I wish I could live to make it up to Joan, 
your Joan. She was in the dream, too, not as she is 
but—how can I explain—as a beginning, a founda¬ 
tion, a long line before her all working to the 

253 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


end of the reason for her existence. Our own 
Raphael-” 

“Oh, Hilda, my poor love, don't!” 

“He was real, Michael. He came almost to my 
arms. Almost. But like the others who had beaten 
at frozen hearts till their poor hands bled, he faded 
into nothingness. At the end I’ve been let see all 
you saw in the beginning. Not only have I kept 
our own house empty, but I’ve emptied generations 
and generations.” 

“Oh, Hilda, darling, stop! It’s all in God’s 
keeping. Don’t think of it any more. Perhaps it 
was to have been just as it is.” 

“If that were true, I’d not have seen. While 
I can’t undo the harm I’ve done, my suffering now 
may be of some atonement and maybe help the 
others. Diana! I don’t know why she’s so much 
in my mind, but she may learn through me what she 
might never have learned unless I had died—know¬ 
ing and telling. I was responsible for the bitter 
wrong done her. She who preaches is responsible 
for all who listen and do. I just wanted to know, 
Michael, at first. It all seemed a lark, not serious. 
I was so heedless in those days. Now I know it 
was vital. I was shown the way to avoid respon¬ 
sibility and I’ve always shirked responsibility.” 

“Don’t worry any more, now please, Hilda. God 
knows all that and God forgives everything if we 
are sorry.” 

“Would he forgive me?” 

254 



MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


“With His sacred Heart, he forgives us when 
we want to be forgiven.” 

“There are some things I can’t forget. Do you 
remember how once, in a temper, I flung out at you 
the thing Arachne told us about your baptismal 
ceremony? Do you remember?” 

Poor Michael had tried to forget it was Hilda 
who repeated the falsehood that had frozen his 
blood in his veins. Besides the thing itself, it had 
hurt him that a statement so outrageous, so unintel¬ 
ligent, could have touched Hilda’s understanding of 
his belief. He remembered well the words 
Hilda repeated, that still rang in his ears: 

“It was held that the child was conceived in sin 
and that an unclean spirit had possession of it. This 
spirit can be removed only by baptism, and the 
Roman Catholic baptismal service even yet con¬ 
tains these words: ‘Go out of him, thou unclean 
spirit, and give place unto the Holy Spirit, the Para¬ 
clete.’ ” 

“Do you, Michael, do you remember?” Hilde- 
garde repeated. 

“Yes, yes, dearest. I tried to tell you then, about 
the doctrine of original sin, and how through the 
disobedience of our first parents we inherit the ‘orig¬ 
inal sin’ in which we are born, and only baptism can 
take it away.” 

“I wouldn’t listen then. Tell me now, for there’s 
something I want very much.” 

“Every child is born in ‘the state of original sin,’ 

255 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the sin we inherit directly from Adam and Eve who 
disobeyed the command of God. This disobedience 
is the sin in which we are born. Baptism takes it 
away. I repeat, ‘disobedience’ for the interpretation 
of the woman who lectured is a very different one. 
Whether the baptism be of water, of desire, or of 
blood, according to circumstance, the sin is taken 
away. The Church commands the devil, the ‘un¬ 
clean spirit’ the evil one, all names for the devil, 
to depart from the soul of the person to be baptized, 
because as long as a soul is in the state of sin, it 
cannot be in the state of grace. And unless a soul 
is in the state of grace it cannot see, or dwell with 
God.” 

“Oh, Michael, what a difference! What miscon¬ 
ception of the truth.” 

“Listen, darling. There is something I must tell 
you about Arachne.” 

“You? What could you know about such a 
woman?” 

“Yes, I, sweetheart. She may not be to blame, 
no entirely ignorant person is. All the arguments 
in her lectures, in her books, are born of just such 
blindness as the thing we have been discussing. We 
are going to forgive her along with the rest, because 
perhaps she doesn’t know. You see, you and I 
can’t judge. God alone knows the accountableness 
of each one, how capable, or incapable each person 
is, to grasp the truth. Some are unfortunate enough 
to be caught in the toils of untruth from the youth 

2 56 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


and never see the way out. Who knows? Perhaps 
after all the years, if she were to find out what the 
thing really is, she might retract.” 

“Could she undo the harm?” 

“We’ll leave that to God, sweetheart. There’s 
something tremendously noble in retracting a wrong 
one has done.” 

“And we must forgive her for all the wrong 
things that led—to my being—hurt like this now?” 

“Oh, my precious love, we must forgive every¬ 
thing, everyone.” 

“Even the wrong to you? To Diana? To the 
little Japanese woman?” 

“Everything. I couldn’t tell you about Diana 
and the Japanese woman and the child before. She 
took them both and cared for them, and is com¬ 
pletely transformed in doing it.” 

Then Hildegarde turned a cheek that suddenly 
became suffused with color to Michael, kneeling, 
watching her. 

“Wait. The girl is a cripple, a hunchback. I 
dreamed her with the rest.” 

“Yes, dear. I know.” 

“Diana will live to look back in happiness for all 
she has done. Did you know I’d been frightfully 
jealous of Joan?” 

“Hush, hush. There was never reason for 
jealousy of anyone.” 

“But I must tell you why. I resented Faith’s 
child taking the place of the children I was too self- 

257 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


ish to have. Will you forgive me that and ask 
Faith to forgive?” 

“There’s nothing to forgive. You see, beloved, 
I love you.” 

“The thing I said I wanted so very much—will 
you baptize me, Michael?” 

His heart throbbing with the wonder, the unex¬ 
pected joy of what she asked, he answered: 

“Let me send for a priest, he will baptize you.” 

“Then call the doctor and tell him to send.” 

A look passed between the two men, but the doc¬ 
tor called up the Cathedral rectory. Then he said 
that to the nurse which sent her hurrying to put all 
in readiness. 

“Darling, do you believe in the regeneration of 
suffering?” 

“I do believe in it.” 

“Then do you think perhaps all the terrible things 
that have happened to me may have been for my 
regeneration ?” 

“Perhaps God wills it for the regeneration of 
many. No one who knows how heroically you’ve 
taken up your cross could help being better for it, 
my poor love,” answered Michael whose heart was 
wrung with anguish. 

“Then it’s like laying down one’s life for one’s 
friend to tell God one is willing? Even glad?” • 

“Just that, my Hilda.” 

“Give me your crucifix, Michael. Thank you. My 
cross is so little, so little. He floods it with light 

258 


MARCH OF THE UNBORN 


to make it easier. I’d like to kiss the crucifix.” 
He held it to her lips. 

“Swiftly now, best Beloved.” He saw there would 
be no time for the priest to get there, but the nurse 
had every thing ready. 

“Hildegarde, I baptize thee-” 

“Mary Hildegarde.” Clearly and distinctly she 
spoke the names. 

“Mary Hildegarde, I baptize thee in the name 
of the Father, and of the Son. and of the Holy 
Ghost. Amen.” 

On the saving waters of regeneration Hilda’s 
fragile bark went floating out to eternity. 


559 



CHAPTER XVI 

“with a wet blanket i’ll put it out” 

“ LL the way across you scarcely spoke a word. 

And now, in Rome, after two days, silence. 
Next week I go away to the Academy and you to 
Via Margutta. There will be no opportunity for 
long talks. Tell me, Joan, what is hurting you 
so. If you do not speak of it to some one you will 
quietly blow up.” 

Joan smiled, but did not laugh. Her vivacity 
had departed along with the color in her face. An 
older expression had come into the eyes and her 
hands were idle. 

She felt not so much that they had lost their 
inspiration, as that their inspiration had never even 
been. She held them up to where the sunshine 
showed red through their pale fragility. 

“Via Margutta and nothing to paint for,” she 
said. 

“Why, Joan, where is your ring?” 

“I don’t know. I left it behind with the rest of 
the things—he—gave me.” 

“It was a beautiful one.” 

“It was a child’s ring.” 

“He had it designed for you?” 

260 


“WITH A WET BLANKET I’LL PUT IT OUT* 


“It reminded me of things I want to forget. 
Passy. 

“Yes?” 

“I could tell you, only you, everything. It would 
ease my heart to get it out. But what other good 
would it do? The thing’s over, finished.” 

“Do you remember once, at Carmel, I was blue 
and sad? That day you told me of your love. For¬ 
give me for remembering. But that day Passiflore 
was sad because so beautiful a thing would never 
come into her life. You have had it, Joan, a thing 
never to forget.” 

“How can you say that, when it was artificial, 
a counterfeit?” 

The dark head went down between the arms 
folded on the balcony railing, but Joan did not cry. 

“I told you I loved you, Joan. What good would 
my love be if it could not help you when you are 
down and blue?” 

Then Joan Desmond clenched her fists and beat 
them against the stone. 

“I hardly know myself, Passy. It’s a lump here, 
right in my breast, cold as if there were no feeling 
there at all. I’ve been thinking, all the way over, 
and since we came, that I’m too young to have my 
whole life crushed out like this.” 

“It’s because you care too intensely for every¬ 
thing.” 

“Perhaps so. It was bad enough to lose—what 
I lost—but to find I cannot trust even the best in 

261 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the world, I believe that’s what kills all feeling in my 
heart. You say I haven’t spoken. I’ve felt too 
numb even to think.” 

It was Passiflore’s eyes that filled with tears. 

“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. It’s all 
right. I just thought it might melt the numbness.” 

“I will tell you, then. But only for you. Perhaps 
it would be better.” 

“I had planned what I was going to say to—him. 
They were hurtful things. I thought I’d get a chance 
to say what I had to tell him, then walk away, out 
of his life, forever. You see, he had built up before 
my eyes an ideal that never even existed. He had 
planned my career for me with no regard to the me 
I might have been if I had been left to myself. And 
I’m not even a blood relation!” 

She opened her eyes to their fullest extent as she 
made this last astonishing assertion. The argument 
w r as irrefutable to her, but Passiflore found it un¬ 
convincing. 

“The career was a good career, Joan.” 

“But I did it all for Raphael. All! I was to 
have helped him in his work. I had not intended 
to go to the house again, never again. But Mummie 
said I must when she found Aunt Hilda had died. I 
really didn’t want to. But I did go with Mummie. 
It was all strange. I felt that I was at another 
funeral, Raphael’s funeral. When we got there 
Mummie went off somewhere and told me to wait 
in the drawing-room downstairs. I was afraid— 

262 


“WITH A WET BLANKET I’LL PUT IT OUT” 


he—would come in. But he didn’t. After a while 
Lizette, you know, her maid, came and said I was 
expected in the library. He, you know, was stand¬ 
ing near the door. He was waiting for me. I never 
never saw him look like that. He seemed some¬ 
how down. I was frightened. Of course I couldn’t 
say the things I’d planned to say, when after all his 
wife had died, and in his own house, too, and es¬ 
pecially after Mummie told me it turned out he 
cared dreadfully. So I just went in. He took 
my face in his hands the way Daddy does and 
looked through me into China. Then he said: 
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive Uncle Michael a 
great deal.’ ” 

“What did you do?” 

“What could I? I said, ‘yes.’ ” 

“Was that all?” 

“I was embarrassed for the first time in my life 
because everything was turning out so differently 
from the way I had expected. But the next thing 
he said put me on my feet. ‘We outgrow every¬ 
thing, Joan, even sorrow. You are going to out¬ 
grow the awful recollection of these days, for you’re 
young, dear, so very young.’ ” 

“Then I said one of the things I had intended 
to say: ‘I’m not coming back.’ My voice went so 
small and queer that I cleared my throat and said 
it over, and added the last thing in the world I 
wanted to tell him.” 

“What was that?” 


263 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“ ‘At least until I can come home with someone 

else as perfect in every way as-’ Something 

in his eyes stopped me and I couldn’t go on and I 
couldn’t finish. He said, ‘Come.’ Then he walked 
ahead of me up to—her room—and straight in. 
You could have heard my heart, it beat so. My 
mother was kneeling by the bed and got up when we 
came. I looked, and, what do you think, Passy? 
She—Aunt Hildegarde—was lying there like a little 
girl smiling in her sleep. Her lovely hair was parted 
and fell in waves about her temples, but there was 
a thin white gauze like a bandage over her poor 
eyes. I lost all the hard feeling I might have had. 
Mummie and I said a Hail Mary for her. She died 
a Catholic. It was all so strange—as if somebody 
had taken her place. This one was meek.” 

“Did you see—him—again?” 

“No. I slipped out. I think he was crying. 
Mummie said at first he had expected to come to the 
ship, but when all these things happened of course 
he couldn’t.” 

“I don’t suppose he could. What did you do with 
Judy?” . 

“I buried him myself. I could only find a grape¬ 
fruit box, but I scraped the pictures off and painted 
it in a sort of sombre Batik. Then I wrapped Judy 
up in an old Carmen fancy dress of Mummie’s. It 
was the nearest thing we could find to Portuguese, 
being Spanish. I made a sort of reverential burial 
service because I couldn’t bear to put him in the 

264 



“WITH A WET BLANKET I’LL PUT IT OUT” 

earth like a heathen without a word. And so that’s 
all.” 

“But when you go home everything will be just 
as it was except for Mrs. Crighton and Judy. You’ll 
be so happy to get home after two years that you will 
go on just as you always did.” 

“No, Passy. I don’t think I will ever go back. 
There is still something I cannot tell. Perhaps I 
will later if things turn out as I think they will.” 

So the two talked on, in their balustraded eyrie 
hung out over Rome from the smallest house along 
the piazzetta of the Trinita. 

Back in the long ago, Faith and Jack had known 
it well, stucco mellowed into dull yellow, creeping 
vines that framed windows, two on Via Sistina, two 
on Via Gregoriana, the small house being somehow 
divided between both streets. The casual eye saw 
only the picturesque old-worldliness of it, and the 
witchery of Rome in the charm of it, but Faith and 
Jack had made it livable. 

Wreathed in wistaria, sequestered behind climb¬ 
ing roses, the balcony suspended like a lark’s nest 
over Piazza di Spagna, bathed itself day and night 
in the glories of the Citta Eterna. 

Passy, one day to carve her passion-flower on 
Rome’s marble, raised her eyes to Mary Immacu¬ 
late, Mary of the uplifted hands, Mary of supernal 
Conception, pleading for the unbelievers of the 
world. 

Beyond the Piazza stretched Via de’ Condotti, 

265 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


artery to the Corso beyond. Over and above all— 
the Dome- 

“When shall we go?” 

“I must go at once.” 

“Why at once, Joan?” 

“I feel the need. There was something I did not 
tell you, remember. There is only a short time left 
in which to do the things I must do. In fact, Passy, 
I doubt if there will be time for anything except 
Saint Peter’s.” 

“You frighten me. What is it all about? Does 
Lady Diana know?” 

“No one knows. Don’t be frightened. There’s 
nothing really frightening.” Then, with the sen¬ 
tentiousness, impressiveness of her seventeen short 
years, Joan continued; “Each of us is born to a cer¬ 
tain destiny. Who knows, if out of what I’ve suf¬ 
fered I may not have found mine?” 

She’d hardly finished speaking, making due effect 
on her audience, when Diana stepped out onto the 
balcony. 

“A letter for Joan and a posy for Passiflore. 
Catch! Fancy a country where the postman carries 
flowers with the daily mail.” 

Fascinated by the scene before her she looked out 
over the rainbow roofs to the great Duomo, and 
Passy buried her face in the dewy blossoms. She 
looked up at Diana with dancing eyes. 

“It’s getting into my blood, Lady Diana. When 
do we go to Saint Peter’s?” 

266 



“WITH A WET BLANKET I’LL PUT IT OUT” 


“How tired are my lambkins? You’ve both had 
enough to do the last few days to exhaust you.” 

“Not tired at all,” they chorused. 

“What about twilight, just for an hour to say 
how-do-you-do ?” 

“I’d love it. And you, Joan?” 

Passiflore was never quite certain of Joan now. 
She looked at her anxiously. 

‘I will be ready when you are, Aunt Di. Perhaps 
I’ll have to answer this letter, but I’ll be ready just 
the same. You see, I must lose no time in seeing 
the things that must be seen.” She stepped back 
through the open door into the drawing room and up 
to her own domain. Diana turned a surprised face 
to Passiflore. 

“What on earth does she mean?” 

“I don’t know. She said the same thing to me 
before you came out.” 

“Poor little soul. What an ordeal she’s going 
through! We can only wait and see.” 

“Yes. Wait and see.” Passiflore always found 
it strange that a person straight and strong should 
have a sorrow. 

Meanwhile Joan, wondering, had taken her letter 
to the desk Diana had fitted out for her. She knew 
the writing well. What could he have to say to 
her? 


New York, November, 19— 

Little Joan: 

Three whole weeks since you sailed away! I could not 

267 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


write easily before. But you understand, you always did. 
Eve been like an old man foundering in the dark. But there 
were many things to lighten the darkness—at the end. 

Some day I will explain a great deal. Now Eve got to 
tell you how sorry I am, how sincerely, profoundly grieved 
for the thing I never dreamed had gone so deep. He was 
real to me, real as any plan conceived but not yet set to paper. 
Ed grown used to living with this dream as with reality and 
I made the dream reality to you. I don’t know how I can 
explain it any better than this or make my position clear. 

I was only just of age when your Aunt Hilda and I were 
married. I had already begun the candlestick making. Our 
house was the first ambitious work I did. And in building 
it I dreamed into the big rooms laughter and youth and life 
for years ahead. I wanted it to be for Aunt Hilda and me, 
and—them—for always, if possible. 

But the house stayed empty, quite empty. One night, Aunt 
Hildegarde being out, I sat in the library alone, thinking. 
It was a few nights before Christmas, and the blazing log 
fire, the candle light, reminded me of the old jingle about 
“ ’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the 
house,” and the rest of it. Suddenly out of the cheerful fire¬ 
place hopped a boy. Such a boy, Joan! You have the pic¬ 
tures I made of him and you have other pictures hidden in 
your heart. Oh, my dear, old Michael knows! It seemed to 
me that night, since there was no one else, since there might 
never be anyone else, why not build him up, an entity? After 
all, great happinesses often are only in the mind, and one can 
carve one’s mind to suit one’s end, provided the carving be 
beautiful. And things to be truly beautiful must be ideally 
good, my Joan. 

I told Aunt Hilda about the boy that hopped out of the 
fireplace in my dream. She did not see him as I saw him. 
She had so many other interests, she really did not need him 
as I needed and wanted him. She was more sensible and 
practical than Michael, and the impalpable had no appeal 

268 


“WITH A WET BLANKET I’LL PUT IT OUT” 


then, but at the end, she understood the intangible far bet¬ 
ter than I. The unreal became real to her and all dim things 
were made clear. 

I called him Raphael because I wanted him to be an 
artist, and since we were dreaming, we might dream into 
him the talent as well as the name of the greatest artist of 
them all. 

One night when he and I were quite alone, each on his 
own side of the blazing logs, he told me he wanted a play¬ 
mate. 

“A brother?” He shook his head. 

“A sister?” He shook it again and said: 

“A neighbour. A little girl that will come in when I w^ant 
her and not be around when I don’t.” 

“Isn’t that a bit selfish, old lad?” I asked. 

“Sometimes I want you to myself, father.” That settled it. 

“What will we call her?” 

“Why, Romilda, of course.” 

“I may be stupid, son, but—Romilda?” 

“Romilda of Rome,” he answered. Then I saw. Stupid 
me, not to have known that Raphael wanted what would 
be of his own time. 

“What’s she to be like?” I asked him. 

“A lilting voice, dancing feet, grey eyes, wide like a kit¬ 
ten’s with the surprise of the world and fringy black 
lashes. She’s to have skin like a rose-petal, and—yes, freckles 
on her inquisitive small nose. Her upper lip is to be short 
and impertinent and she’s to have clouds of ash-gold hair. 
That’s how I want Romilda.” 

But not even Uncle Michael’s imagination could ever 
make her come alive. We’ve mentioned her, you and I, but 
she never really came. And after a while we forgot her. 
Perhaps some day you and I may find her, or she will come 
back from her Eden Hall. Perhaps she entered at Ken- 
wmod, who knows? At all events she never came to play. 
I asked the boy about it, and he said: 

269 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“She’s not real. We must wait. So we waited. And 
you came, child. You made my son more real to me than 
I had made him to myself. At first, it was only our game, 
our play. Then, dawned on me the impractical idea, the 
thought that surged and made me feel at least I had found 
something more worth while than all the candlesticks; if 
I could, by evoking the phantasy of the utmost conception 
of perfect boyhood, youth, manhood, you would grow up with 
an ideal in your life that nothing else would satisfy. But 
that’s where Uncle Michael made his mistake. The intan¬ 
gible became tangible—the shadow, reality. Curiously the 
truth only came home to me during the few moments we had 
together, the day after the—tragedy. 

If I had only realized before, I would have told you it 
was the dream foolishness of a lonely man. 

That very night Raphael left my house and my life as he 
left yours. Perhaps it may be an atonement that being with¬ 
out him—now—is my punishment. And perhaps, too, I’m 
sorry that the boy of tw T enty-one those aeons past, built him 

a house so big—I have Dingle Bey- 

Your mother tells me she writes by every ship, and in 
her last letter your father was a little better. He looks for¬ 
ward to the day when he can ride again. It seems that Billy 
Bobtail, while still in the flesh, has found his happy hunt¬ 
ing grounds close to the paddock and is replaced by a younger 
and stronger, Vivien by name. 

At the last writing your dear father was sitting out in 
the sunshine, making a sketch of him. Tell Aunt Diana 
that the Van Dysarts sailed for Paris via Cherbourg just be¬ 
fore you reached Italy. Our little group of candlestick-makers 
is establishing a foothold in France, and Uncle Bob will be 
in charge there. By reason of the aloneness of things I 
had half made up my mind to follow, when the decision 
came from headquarters that Boston was to have its long- 
needed Cathedral, and personal feelings had to be sacrificed. 
The thing is to be done, I am to do it, and it’s to be old 

270 



“WITH A WET BLANKET ELL PUT IT OUT” 


Roman. The initial plans are to germinate this very night. 
I say “thank God.” It will fill the time—and for Him. 
Some day you will find out that even daily work done for the 
King, touches closer to romance than the greatest adven¬ 
ture! Between ourselves I think because it’s the most stu¬ 
pendous adventure in a workaday world. Remember this 
when shadows gather. Some day write, and tell me I am 
forgiven? Uncle Michael. 

It might possibly have been reawakened associa¬ 
tion, homesickness, self-pity, the apparent futility of 
things in general, but whatever it might or might 
not be, the floods of Joan’s heart were loosed 
and she cried as she had never thought to cry 
again. 

The onrush of tears, sudden, violent, cleared the 
mental atmosphere. Feeling better, she lifted her 
head, wiped her eyes, read and re-read the letter 
that explained much and told little. 

Why should he have insinuated that she had been 
in love with love? That had not been the case at 
all. She had been in love with Raphael Crighton. 
How could anyone of intelligence love an abstract 
thing? What was it Mummie had called it long 
ago? “Michael’s vagaries.” Now she knew what 
it meant; whim, fancy, humour, freak. Freak! She 
had been in love with what the dictionary called a 
freak. Raphy! 

“I will answer him now, at once,” she said to her¬ 
self, “before I feel it less.” So taking a sheet from 
the brown leather case Aunt Diana had found at 
Casciani’s across the way, she began: 

271 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Roma, November—, 19— 

“Dear Mr. Crighton-” No. That would 

not do. It looked foolish and resentful, not digni¬ 
fied. Above all she must hold her dignity. She tore 
up that sheet and started another: 

“Michael Crighton, Esq. 

“Dear Sir-” No, not that, either. It looked 

too much as if it should have been followed up with, 
“enclosed please find fifty cents for a tube of azure 
paint.” Once he had instructed her to do that very 
thing when a sky needed toning up. 

As “Uncle Michael" he no longer existed. Could 
she say, Michael? Her experience had placed her 
among the Olympians. But he might misunderstand 
and call it youthful impertinence. Youth, she had 
put far behind her. It would never do to be mis¬ 
construed on that score. “I won’t begin it at all,” 
she thought, “even he will appreciate the loftiness 
of that.” 


Roma, November, 19— 

Your letter just received. I confess to being rather at a 
loss how to reply. I felt the day I saw you it was not the 
time to say what was to be said. There are occasions when 
even a person who had made a mistake in the placing of her 
affection, knows how to be discreet. You speak of a time 
when I will be older. That time will never be. I am as 
old as anyone could be. My experiences have made me 
old before my time. I am now not three years older than 
Passiflore as I was at first, but five and twenty years older. 
She is a mere child. One who has loved as I have loved is 
old enough to cope with any question of life. Therefore 

272 




“WITH A WET BLANKET ELL PUT IT OUT” 


your mentioning that in the future you will explain things 
not clear now is futile. You are free to tell me everything 
now. And there are things that you must be told, too. 
If I were what I only seem to be, a mere girl, I might 
appear impertinent. Please consider me a woman of no 
age in particular speaking to you on your own plane. 

To think of one falling in love with love, is absurd. 
Raphael was your son and I fell in love with him. As to 
marriage, I never got so far as to consider it. I loved him. 
He loved me. We were congenial. I never got any further 
than to think of the day I should say to him, “Here is a 
masterpiece I have done for the Metropolitan Museum. You 
are its inspiration. Sec what you have been in my life! 
And he was to stand, amazed. I tell you all this quite 
frankly though it is humiliating. But I have been humiliated 
before the world. I know now what Mrs. Clavering thought, 
and Mrs. Trent. And I know now why Matsuo always 
dropped the fruit or smashed a plate when I mentioned 
Raphael. I was brought up to regard truth as a code. 
Truth was part of you, just as your hands or your feet or 
your breath are part of you. And I have been dealt an un¬ 
truth, nay, I have been fed with one. It has been all around 
me. Were I the child some people think I am, I would have 
been shocked. I am not shocked. I am beyond shocking. 
But I am bitterly disappointed in some people. Also, I have 
been a fool. This, too, is humiliating. But that is all over 
now. Perhaps, were I not following the idea of right and 
wrong to which I have been brought up, I too might fall 
into untruth because those whom I respected did not uphold 
it. But this I will say once and forever, then, forever after 
hold my peace: 

Raphael was to me as a Sir Galahad. 'Vou may take him 
out of my life, but you cannot wrench him from my heart 
and memory. I must place a memorial upon his grave. This 
memorial will be to hold inviolate the things I learned 
through him. Other girls will come into my life who have 

273 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


their loves. I will have had mine, therefore am I on their 
plane, yet higher. My Raphael could do no wrong. Why 
should I, whom he loved, do less than he? Or—should you 
not grasp what I mean, if I were not his other self, I was 
his other self that would have been, if he had been what he 
was not, but will always be to me. I hope I have made it 
clear. 

And this, too, will I say, once and forever: if I go back to 
America, I don’t say that I will—it is likely I will not—but 
if I should, it will not be till I can go with one at my side 
who will be to me in the life to come what Raphael has been 
in my broken past. Yes. You may even tell my mother when 
you write. 

While I am and always will be deeply devoted to my 
mother, and while I do her the justice to concede that neither 
she nor Daddy were in collusion with the thing that killed 
my youth, still they knew I had been duped, and I thought 
of it every time I looked at them. Therefore I am greatly 
relieved to be away for the present. It is not unlikely that 
Aunt Diana knows, too, but she, beautiful as she is, is also 
the victim of disappointed love. 

So I don’t feel the same about having her around, or Passi- 
flore. Passiflore is a vent. Aunt Diana a sympathetik 
adviser. 

Thanking you for your kind letter, and hoping we may 
perhaps meet in a future that is certain to be uncertain what¬ 
ever way one looks at it, 

Yours sincerely, 

Joan Desmond. 

P. S.—We are about to get our first view of Saint Peter’s. 

“Bless the child for that P. S.,” said Michael as 
he folded the letter away. 


274 


CHAPTER XVII 


A FIRST IMPRESSION 


“ TJ EADY, lamb ? It’s getting late. Finished your 

JLV letter?” 

With a tragic look Joan answered, “It is finished 
indeed!” Then after seeing with satisfaction that 
Passiflore, if not Diana, was duly impressed, she 
asked: “How are we going to get there?” 

“I thought we’d look for a cabby at the foot of 
the steps.” 

“Can Passiflore make them?” 

“I must see the flowers. I can walk anywhere to 
see such flowers,” urged Passy, whose very soul was 
athrill with the color and line of Rome at every 
turn. 

“Well, I’ll help you if you get panicky,” Joan de¬ 
clared as they started along the Pincio. Then down 
the wide sweep of stair they went, lingering to catch 
the effect of the coloured mass below, and once look¬ 
ing back at the outline of the Trinita where it was 
caught in silhouette against the twilight sky. 

Among the fiacres waiting beside Bernini’s barge 
they found one whose driver was jovial and 
anxious to please. He had a fat little mare whose 

275 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


gait: by day proved somehow to be so slow, by night 
so swift, that they gave her the name of Incubo, 
name that supplanted her own to the end of her 
days. 

On down the enchanting maze of Via dei Con- 
dotti’s shops, past the Corso and della Scroffa into 
Via Ripetta. 

“Ponte Umberto, Signora?’’ 

“Oh, no, no,” cried Passiflore. “Drive on to 
Sant’ Angelo. I must see my angels now ” 

The man shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, 
only catching the name of the bridge, and drove 
them the length of the rounding street till they came 
to the bridges entrance. 

“Lady Diana ! Lady Diana ! Mow the wind must 
have blown while he worked!” 

“Saint Peter and Saint Paul seem to guard the 
entrance to the great Christian world,” Diana said. 

“Yes, oh, yes, but the angels are every one a Vic¬ 
tory,” Joan cried. 

Victory? thought Diana, as she looked up at each 
while they drove slowly across, Passiflore’s hand 
held tightly in her own. Bernini had indeed flung 
the angel’s draperies to a kindly wind, but were the 
emblems in their hands signs of victory? One car¬ 
ried a crown of thorns, and one three cruel nails. 
One held a sponge that had been steeped in gall and 
one a cross on which the King had died. Victory? 

Then, all brilliant with the dying sun, the Dome! 
Joan was right. The spear, the crown of thorns, 

276 


A FIRST IMPRESSION 


the nails, the very cross on which He Who made the 
dome had died, were symbols of the greatest triumph 
that had ever been. What wonder that the tear- 
stained faces of the angels were yet alight with ec¬ 
stasy? What wonder that their garments floated 
victorious? Christ the Man, tortured and dying, 
Christ, God, risen over death, divine! 

Out ahead, Castel Sant’ Angelo. Diana was never 
to forget that drive across the bridge with Hadrian’s 
huge mausoleoum looming at the end beyond the 
memorial chapels of the pilgrims. 

It brought it back—her youth—her year with 
Larry. Not the Rome in which she and Joan and 
Passiflore were to joy and suffer, not the Rome 
through which she drove this twilight. But a paper 
Rome, a painted Rome, Rome revealed behind a 
silk curtain of yellowed gold, Rome of a crystal voice 
that sang a last cadenza from the roof of a pictured 
Castel. How he had sung that night, Caruso, the 
unforgettable! How Larry had likened her to 
Jeritza!- 

“Was Mario a reality, Larry? I always think 
he must have been just a poet’s creation.” 

“Of course he was real, the tenor of his day.” 

“Could he have sung as Caruso sings?” 

“No human voice ever sang as Caruso sings. Per¬ 
haps—in Heaven we may hear its like. Not till 
then.” 

“Why, Larry! Are you really serious enough to 
feel it? There are tears in your eyes!” 

277 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Rot! I’ve got a cold in my head.” 

“That’s a relief. I didn’t think you’d be 
stirred to tears. And she had laughed. Laughed! 
Today she knew Larry had cried, and she wished 

Some day she would slip away from everyone, 
everything, go alone to the Castel and climb as Tosca 
had climbed to the roof. Perhaps she could 
reconstruct the scene, recall the lilting voice. Per¬ 
haps she could rebuild other scenes—other mem¬ 
ories— 

Into Borgo Nuovo, and out onto the vast Piazza 
where a fragment of the True Cross crowns the 
obelisk. Across their cheeks wafted cool spray from 
the fountains, fountains of which Cardinal Wiseman 
said, “They stand like symbols of the inexhaustible 
streams of sacramental grace, ever flowing into the 
Church of God.” 

“My head’s like a turntable,” laughed Joan, “I 
keep it going round and round, so afraid I’ll miss 
something.” 

“There’s so much, so much!” exclaimed Passi- 
flore. 

“Steady, honeys. We’ve been in Rome two days. 
We hope to stay at least two years. Whenever the 
studio work is done you shall be free to see what¬ 
ever you want. And there will be all the regular 
holidays.” 

“I know,” Passiflore answered, “but it’s the dream 
of my life come true. The days will be too short. 

278 




A FIRST IMPRESSION 


I want to see it all at once. And I do want to keep 
on dreaming.” 

“We all want to keep dreaming, Passy,” Diana 
said, but little Joan, who had dreamed the most, 
was still. 

Then Bernini’s colonnades, the great exalting 
sweep of them, and the steps to the Portico. 

“Hold your breath and pray, children. In that 
corner over there, Saint Francis must have sat and 
begged the time he came to Rome to see the Pope.” 

“Joan, you and I must hold our breath and pray 
at every step we take, for here is where the martyrs 
walked,’ said Passiflore. 

Diana, pray. Who knows if the love you’ve 
given to God’s “least of these,” may not be re¬ 
turned to you the promised hundredfold, here 
where behind the veil of ages Paradise itself is 
hidden? 

The driver stopped before Saint Peter’s and 
waited for them to get down, then “Dio Mio!” 
he cried, and made horns in the direction of Passy 
whom he saw for the first time. “Will it be worth 
the while of Incubo and me, to risk the driving of 
a gobbaT } 

But whether or no the original nightmare under¬ 
stood, has never been revealed. That she bobbed 
her head emphatically, the driver could have sworn. 
As was proved by subsequent events it was quite 
worth the while of both man and mare. Besides, 
one could always make the horns. 

279 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“I must see it all, everything thoroughly tonight, 
Aunt Di.” 

“Why everything at once, gourmande? It will 
take months to see all of Saint Peter’s. We’ve only 
an hour now. But we’ll come again tomorrow if 
you wish.” 

“There may be no tomorrow.” 

Diana laughed at the sententiousness with which 
Joan spoke, and answered, “Then we will let tomor¬ 
row take care of itself. See what’s to see, now. 
Look!” as they passed under the leathern curtain 
to the vastest temple in all the world. 

“Oh, Lady Diana—could it have been less ?” 1 
breathed Passiflore. Her hands, unconsciously 
clasped together on her breast, were eloquent of an 
awakening to this heart of the Christian world. 

But Joan hurried ahead across the polished mar¬ 
bles to the spot where Saint Peter’s vigil lights 
flickered out of golden garlands through the cen¬ 
turies. There she knelt down, her forehead pressed 
against the railing that surrounds his tomb. 

“Oh, Father Fisherman,” she cried within herself, 
“show me the way, for I am little and young, and 
unless God takes me by the hand, I will be all alone.” 


280 


CHAPTER XVIII 
joan's plan 


A UNT DI, lend me Hana this afternoon?” 
Diana hesitated. Under her drooping hat, 
Joan’s face seemed more delicate than before she 
sailed. There were lines and shadows that had no 
rightful place about her eyes and mouth. The blue 
of the eyes themselves had taken on a deeper tone. 
The older woman was seized with a sudden access 
of responsibility, for Joan was growing up, rapidly, 
as a flower develops over night. 

“I thought we had decided to take Passiflore to 
the Academy. She starts Monday, you: know.” 

“I know. I’d not forgotten, but perhaps there 
would be time after I get back. I ought not to be 
gone long, and it’s serious,” she pleaded; “my whole 
stay in Rome may depend on it, perhaps all my 
future depends on it, Aunt Di. I want to go now. 
Please, everything will be all right if only you’ll 
lend me Hana?” 

Diana, whose checkered career had given her clear 
insight into values serio-comic as well as serio-tragic, 
understood Joan, and that an imaginary hurt could 
cut deep as a bayonet. She knew the healing power 

281 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


of time on wounds. If the child were to be cured 
she must be humoured. The woman who had suf¬ 
fered knew sympathy and how to cure. 

“Take her then, dear, and welcome. Passy and 
I will run out to the Academy together and make 
what final arrangements are to be made. Stay as 
long as you like, then tomorrow we’ll go to Via 
Margutta about the painting. How will that be?” 

“Oh, wonderful, you darling Aunt Diana! How 
can I thank you for being so good to me?” 

“By drying those foolish tears and getting just as 
much fun out of your little secret as you can. Then 
come home and tell Aunt Di all about it.” But 
as she turned back into the house the smile faded. 
“Poor little soul,” she thought, “intense nature, hard 
battle, fighting bravely, and God knows to what 
end!” 

Out towards Villa Lante Incubo had come to a 
dead stop. 

“Will I wait outside in the cab, Miss Joan?” 
Hana asked. 

“Oh, no. We’ll leave him here, you and I. 
He doesn’t seem inclined to come much, does he? 
And we’ll walk right into the Villa. There’ll be 
a chapel. You can pray in it. Pray for me. I’m 
going to need it, Hana.” 

She led the way, high purpose in her heart, and 
the Japanese woman followed, looking now to the 
right, now to the left, wondering what the place 
might be, but with her native patience waiting till 

282 


JOAN’S PLAN 


Joan might see fit to enlighten her. How could 
Miss Joan know about a place so remote in this 
strange Rome? Why did she bring only Hana? 
Whom did she intend to see alone while Hana 
prayed? The while Joan marched on as if she 
were quite at home and the place as familiar as 
the Piazza on which stood the little yellow house 
they knew as home. 

They came at last to the porte cochere and wide 
stone staircase to the door. The clang of the bell 
had not died out when the door was opened by a 
nun in the habit of the Sacred Heart. She held out 
both her hands, saying to Joan, “You are one of 
our children, I know. From what house?” 

“From Manhattanville, mother. I want to see 
Reverend Mother General.” 

“Of course you do. All our children must see 
her, and she wants to know them all. Come with 
me. And”—she looked at Hana with a smile, “Will 
you come, too ?” 

Hana, shrinking, timid, unaccustomed to the black 
habit, looked to Joan to make her answer: 

“This is Hana, Mother. She lives with us and 
takes care of her little girl and me. I think if she 
could go to the chapel she’d like it. I could find 
her there later. What I have to say to Reverend 
Mother is very private.” 

Mother Fielding, who had for years been secre¬ 
tary to the Superior General, had not dealt as long 
as she had with the young without knowing why 

283 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Joan had come. But this little American looked 
so extremely young, and sad, too. The ones who 
came to see Reverend Mother on such private busi¬ 
ness were not generally sad. 

“I’m glad you came today. Usually one has to 
make an appointment. There are so many people 
to see, so much to be done. But some one failed 
who was to have been here at this hour. Reverend. 
Mother will be quite free. I know how she will 
love to see you.” She called a sister who stood be¬ 
side the door and put Hana in her care, telling her 
to show her everything, the house, the chapel, wher¬ 
ever she wanted to go, then led Joan down a cor¬ 
ridor and into Reverend Mother Fraser’s private 
drawing-room. 

With her eyes always open to whatever there 
might be of charm, Joan was at once aware that 
the carved crucifix on the wall was the work of a 
master and the Spanish paintings must have been 
heirlooms in the Order. Simple as simplicity itself, 
austere, the room held a dignity somehow repose¬ 
ful and particularly so to the young girl whose 
heart was in a turmoil. 

So absorbed she was in the things about her that 
she did not hear Reverend Mother’s footstep, and 
only turned at the welcome in her voice. 

“Mother Fielding tells me you are from Man- 
hattanville. You must tell me all about it.” The 
feeling of being alone, little, and very unexpectedly 
shy, that had assailed her at the tomb of Saint 

284 


JOAN’S PLAN 

Peter, and returned inopportunely while she waited, 
fell from her at the first sound of the Superior 
General’s voice. 

“I’m Joan Desmond, Reverend Mother. I was 
only a special pupil at Manhattanville. I never 
really went to any school. We had to be away so 
much for my father’s health—and my little broth¬ 
er’s, that I never stayed anywhere long enough to 
go to school. I studied the languages at Manhattan¬ 
ville and made my first Communion—but I did 
love it. There’s never been any other school.” 

“The Sacred Heart will always claim you then, 
child.” 

“I hope so. That’s why I came. I want the 
Sacred Heart to claim me in more ways than one.” 

How young she looked! 

“Come and sit by the window and let us talk.” 

She led the girl to a chair where she watched 
the expression that played in the mobile face. 
When Joan pulled off her gloves, the Superior 
noticed the slender length of her fingers and unmis¬ 
takable signs of talent in the expressive hand. 

“Who has taught you what you know of other 
things, Joan?” 

“My mother, when I’ve been with her, and a sort 
of uncle who is no relation at all, but a friend 
of Daddy’s. He knows everything.” 

“So? Tell me.” 

“His name is Michael Crighton.” She did not 
see the little start of surprise. 

285 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“The great architect?” 

“Yes, Reverend Mother.” 

“You have had unusual privileges for so young 
a girl. How did you happen to study with him?” 

Joan had been growing more and more nervous 
as the conversation went ahead. She had not come 
here with any idea of discussing Michael or the 
past. In her inexperience she thought to leave these 
essential topics outside the sequestered walls. Clasp¬ 
ing her hands together she made her impulsive plea: 

“Oh, Reverend Mother, please. I don’t want 
to talk about any of these things. I came to ask 
you to take me in and let me stay.” 

“But daughter, this is not the school. The school 
is at the Trinita de Monti. This house is the no¬ 
vitiate.” 

“I know. I know, ,f reiterated Joan, “that's why 
I came. That’s how I ask you to take me in.” She 
had grown pale in her eagerness, and earnest. 

“But child, you are very young, surely not yet 
eighteen?” 

“I’ll be eighteen this month, but I am old in ex¬ 
perience of life. And I do know what I want. I 
do want to come in. Oh, I do want to come in.” 

The lips trembled and the eyes were full of 
unshed tears. The wise superior-general read in 
the sensitive face the same story she had read in 
other and older faces. They are wise in heart lore, 
these women who dwell in the inner temple. She 
took the cold hand in her own. 

286 


JOAN’S PLAN 

“There’s a nice spot out under the ilexes hidden 
away from the rest of the garden. It will be shady 
now. How would you like to come there with me 
and tell me just what you want me to know about 
it all?” 

“I’d love it,” said Joan simply. 

So they found the sequestered place within sound 
of a fountain’s splash. Fragrance of orange blos¬ 
soms and full-blown roses mingled with the pungent 
smell of burning leaves. Somewhere was incense. 
Above, the whole arch of God’s monastery roof, 
Italy’s sky spread like the Father’s love over world¬ 
ling and religious, sheltering saint and sinner. It 
was somehow easier for Joan to tell her story out 
beneath it. 

“They were able to keep it from you till you 
were grown?” 

The girl bowed her head for her heart was very 
full. 

“There is no question as to the wisdom of it. 
Like a great many things that in themselves are 
harmless a little indiscretion or a great indiscretion, 
a little unwisdom may do just the wrong this dream 
has done you, Joan. It might wound a soul almost 
to death. Almost. But we all make mistakes. I 
can easily see how in loneliness as you describe 
a man or woman might rear just such a creature of 
imagination to play a living part. But I don’t see 
how you could go on believing when you had no 
visible evidence of his existence?” 

287 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“I never doubted anybody. He was supposed to 
be away at school, and I did have his pictures, let¬ 
ters from him, too, or so I thought them. He 
was Raphael. I always call him that, or Raphy 
because he’s as much part of my life as Mummie 
or Daddy, and I can’t forget all at once. At last, 
when I was nearly seventeen, they said he had to 
come to Rome, to get him away from me, I sup¬ 
pose. I should have insisted on being taken to his 
school that last year just to see him, and they 
knew it.” 

“What gave you such insight into his character 
as you describe it? The whole thing is so imper¬ 
sonal that I don’t understand that part.” 

“I said there were letters, too, Reverend 
Mother.” 

“Who could have written them?” 

“The one who was Uncle Michael, Raphy’s 
father. There could have been no one else to write 
them.” 

“What an imagination! No wonder-” 

“You see I built up everything on his reality, on 
his goodness, and I would have only the best. That 
was why I wanted to draw as well as Raphy, to 
paint as well, to study and work to keep up with 
him so that some day I could help him. And that 
wasn’t all. He was so everything I could hope for 
in a man that if it should ever have been question 
of my marrying, he would have made it impossible 
for me to care for any one less perfect. Of course, 

288 



JOAN’S PLAN 

I’ll never marry. I’d always be comparing them if 
I did.” 

“Oh, my dear little girl, no men or women are 
perfect. Give me a child without a temper and 
I’ll show you one without much character. The 
thing is to realize one’s imperfections and root them 
out. I think you have, in yourself, the utmost 
essential for happiness.” 

“What is that?” 

“Capacity for strong, tenacious love. In God’s 
own time you may learn what His will has been 
through all your difficulty. Do you remember the 
line, ‘patient endurance attaineth to all things’? A 
little more patience, a little finer endurance, and 
you will find the way.” 

In her heart the wise religious pitied Michael 
and fully appreciated the ill-advised, impulsive thing 
he had done. She did not dare tell Joan it might 
prove the bulwark Michael had hoped. 

“There will never be any one else. I’m finished 
with the world. I want to stay here, in the novitiate. 
If I use my talent for the Order, how can it be 
wasted?” There was tragedy in her tone. 

“You were only a special pupil you say, dear. 
Did you know the children at the convent?” 

“Oh, no, I only went occasionally for private 
lessons.” 

“Have you known a great many young people, 
dear?” 

“Not many. Mickey, my little brother, you 

289 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


know, died. He was named for—him. While 
they were away, Daddy and Mummie and Mickey, 
I lived at the Crighton’s house. I had a parot 
and the dogs to play with, but the dogs all died and 
I gave—him another one. I told you about Judy. 
Then there is Passiflore.” 

“Passiflore?” 

“A Japanese girl, Hana’s little girl. She’s only 
very young, and sculps. She lives with us and 
her mother takes care of us both. I never under¬ 
stood much about them, but Passy is perfectly 
remarkable. She's a hunchback and is starting to¬ 
day at the Academy. She has sculpted since she 
was a baby.” 

An amused smile played about the Mother Gen¬ 
eral’s lips. It was not often she came upon one as 
youthfully refreshing as Joan, nor one who spoke 
as freely. 

“Tell me about Passiflore.” 

“She began by doing toys and flowers in plastic. 
Then once when Aunt Diana, wdio’s really not my 
aunt any more than—he—is my uncle, came to visit 
us at Carmel Passiflore began to model in the 
sand. Her modelling was so extraordinary that 
artists urged Aunt Di to bring her over here. She 
will be great, really great. I can draw and paint, 
but have no longer any ambition to be great. But 
some day all the world will know about Passiflore. 
She’s a genius.” 

“You must bring her to see me.” 

290 


PLAN 


JOAN’S 

“I’d love to—only-” Her eyes were dancing 

now, dancing a question all their own. 

“Only what, child?” 

“Perhaps when she comes to see me here-?” 

“I see. You must have your verdict now.” 

“Yes, please. Oh, yes.” 

“You will not be hurt?” 

“I promise.” 

“Then, you must wait. You are too young. 
Oh, I know what is in your mind, what has hap¬ 
pened to the impulsive heart our Lord loves 
for its very impulsiveness. That heart is full of the 
things dearest to Him, affection, the desire to serve. 
It’s gone through sufferings, too, but in spite of the 
suffering it is still untried and must have more 
time.” 

“More time to suffer?” 

“More time to know itself.” 

“But Reverend Mother, love is life, and love is 
over, finished. What else is there?” 

“Who gave you everything?” 

“Why, God, of course.” 

“Would you give Him a heart that is finished, 
a heart that a creature had emptied of love? 
And not even a living creature! Would that 
be generous, Joan? When one gives oneself to 
the service of the Master, one does it whole¬ 
heartedly.” 

“Isn’t it the life of sacrifice that counts? The 
work?” 


291 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“If the convent is only a refuge from pain 
and disappointment, where does the sacrifice come 
in?” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Love is the basis of sacrifice. If we love God 
so deeply, so entirely that we gladly give up every 
one and everything to serve Him, to draw other 
souls to the glory of knowing Him, then do we sur¬ 
render ourselves and all we might have been to His 
service without thought of self. Never a religious 
who gives herself to God because of disappointed 
love! That’s an old fable, argument of the igno¬ 
rant. God attunes the souls He calls, to the highest 
note of all, Himself. Nothing less can satisfy 
them.” 

“Is that why nuns are always so happy? I don’t 
believe I’ve ever seen a sad one.” 

“Isn’t that a good reason, little Joan?” 

“It seems to me it must be. But I didn’t know. 
I thought I could work so hard here I’d forget. 
You see, I had written the one I called Uncle 
Michael, to say I would never go home again, 
unless, of course, I could go with such a one as 
Raphael would have been. As there could never 
be any one like him, I can never go back. I can’t 
stay here alone. When Passy shall have finished 
her studies, Aunt Di will probably settle her in 
Paris or London, or even New York. So as I will 
not marry, I thought of the convent.” 

Reverend Mother Fraser had a fellow feeling 

292 


JOAN’S PLAN 


with the splash of the rippling fountain. It was 
like the care-free laughter of nuns at recreation 
time, laughter of the children of God. 

“It takes a great deal to make a vocation/’ 

“It really seems it does. I never gave it much 
thought before. The thought of marriage and 
Raphy never entered my head, either. We were 
just us, Raphy and Joan, like Mickey, my little 
brother, and Joan. But I know that if he had been 
himself I couldn’t have married any one else.” 

How little thought this child had given to the 
great gift into which she would have rushed blind¬ 
folded! In spite of the world in which she had 
evidently been brought up she had remained as 
untouched by it as a child of six. 

“Religious vocations show themselves in so many 
ways,” Mother Fraser said. “I remember one re¬ 
ligious who came many years ago to make her pro¬ 
fession, the year I made my own. She told me she 
had felt the call distinctly at the age of four. Think 
of the blessed certainty of a life that never had to 
question.” 

“Didn’t any other love come to her? Did she 
enter too young to know what it was all about?” 

“She waited till she was nearly ten years older 
than you are now. She had seen the world, good 
and bad. She had her chances like every one else. 
She loved life and the good things life had to give, 
and life loved her, too. But through it all she never 
once lost sense of the sacred, beating Heart of her 

293 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Lord. He came first. The rest never counted till 
she made it count for Him.” 

“I think it strange.” 

“You should be the last to think it strange, for 
after all, your little love was a phantom. Her 
great Love was Reality—indeed, sometimes I feel 
that the passing of this short life is very like the 
passing of a phantom itself, except that it’s a time 
of proving ourselves, a time of trial, and therefore 
very real.” 

“It must be peaceful in the convent,” said Joan 
wistfully. 

“It is peace. But it would not be peace if she 
who entered had not a true vocation. One who 
entered without that would neither make nor keep 
the peace,” laughed the Superior. 

“Is there ever suffering in a convent? Do you 
feel things as we do, death, and all that?” 

“If there were no suffering we would not need 
to take that last earthly breath, the passage into 
Paradise. Yes, there’s suffering. If we would fol¬ 
low our Master we must bear His cross, joyfully. 
Some day you will learn the meaning of joy in suf¬ 
fering, but you must have lived in the real sense 
of the word, first. Our Lord became human, as¬ 
sumed human nature to show us the way, because 
we are human. The great thing for you must be, 
to find the path, the greatest way of grace. And, 
having found it, live up to it. As you say, ‘play 
the gamed ” 


294 


JOAN’S PLAN 

Joan laughed at that. It was a quick transition. 
But the Superior’s sense of humor was alive and 
she laughed with Joan. The child appealed to her. 
It was evident Joan had no vocation to the religious 
life, but she w r as the sort needed by the world and 
in the world, never more than now. 

“There’s a great deal more to say, but I am 
afraid there’s some one waiting for me. We will 
talk another time if you will come. But always 
remember this: a convent is a little world, filled 
with all kinds of people. If one has everything life 
and the world can give, it takes courage to turn 
away from it to the four walls of any cloister. The 
heart remains as other hearts, with its days of 
depression, its days of ill health, its failures, suc¬ 
cesses and happiness. But one is given grace to 
take each as God’s gift, cheerfully, and thank Him. 
Once a dear religious said to me, ‘When I entered 
the novitiate I thought I was doing a tremen¬ 
dous thing for God. Now I know He was doing 
everything for me.” She rose, and Joan got 
up, feeling as if a load had fallen from her shoul¬ 
ders. 

“I didn’t think there was so much to it. If I had 
I wouldn’t have thought of it. Reverend Mother” 
—a blush suffused her face—“you must think me 
very ignorant and silly?” 

“I think you anything but either. Come to see 
me again. Some day, I hope not for a long time, 
but some day you will come to show me a ring on 

295 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

this left hand, and not the ring of a religious,’* she 
smiled. 

“Perhaps,” answered Joan dubiously, then: 
“What would you advise me to do now?” 

“Your mother’s idea in sending you over was 
to study and paint, and find the best here in the 
heart of the world, wasn’t that it?” 

“Altogether.’ 

“Make it worth her sacrifice. She has had to 
give you up for your own good, has she not? If 
children only knew how to make the sacrifices of 
parents easier they wouldn’t really be children!” 
she laughed. 

“I think Passiflore understands all about sacri¬ 
fice. Aunt Diana, who is not a real widow, but 
somehow apart, has rather adopted her. She would 
die for Aunt Diana, but instead she intends to make 
herself the greatest sculptress in the world.” 

“That is the spirit, magnificent! Joan, I have 
an idea.” 

“Yes, Reverend Mother?” 

“If the little crippled girl is going to be the great¬ 
est sculptress for her adopted mother, why not do 
as well as she ? Why not try to make yourself the 
greatest among the young American painters in 
Rome ? Then, give the glory to your own mother.” 

“Do you think I might? I don’t know anything 
about the other artists.” 

“I think you could try. Don’t bother about the 
others. Do your best ” 

296 


JOAN’S PLAN 

“Would that be a vocation?” 

“A very decided vocation if your motive be a 
high one. Half the world loses merit for marvel¬ 
lous achievement because it forgets to keep the 
motive on a high plane.” 

“Could such a vocation, such ambition, fill my 
life so full that I’d be content to wait, years and 
years if necessary, for a real—Raphael to come?” 

“So much that you’ll be quite content to wait 
God’s own good time in patience.” 

“Well, if anything can teach me patience, that 
thing will be a miracle!” 

“Then work, child. Work at your painting with 
all your heart and soul. And come to me when 
you can, and when you can, bring Passiflore.” 


297 


CHAPTER XIX 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 

E VENING shadows along the mellowed facade 
of Villa Medici touched to treetops over¬ 
hanging the great basin of the Pincio’s fountain, 
touched with long reach the yellowed parapet all 
down its length, even to the gardens below. 

Incubo and his driver had stopped at the entrance 
of Via Sistina and refused to move another step, 
so Hana had gone to the little house alone, while 
Joan dismissed the fiacre and walked on past the 
Trinita steps to think out her problems. She lin¬ 
gered where the soothing melody of dripping waters 
had given inspiration to many an artist through 
divers centuries. 

Down under the parapet, hidden, sequestered 
where gardens spread their maze, lay Via Margutta. 
It was a place wherein to dream one’s dreams, then 
bring them flaming into life. The girl’s heart 
throbbed at thought of it. Not only for this winter 
and next spring nor for a fleeting year. She was 
to become part of it, to be one with it, grow with 
its growth, infuse herself into the very magic of it. 
Perhaps Faith had known that the antidote pre- 

298 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 


scribed would heal the ill to Joan’s heart. But 
Michael Crighton, who had found on the Pincio 
both beginning and fulfillment, had been certain. 
He had made his way step by step from the secluded 
street to Villa Medici, thence to the heights. So 
it comforted him way back in his America to feel 
that through his suggestion Joan would have her 
chance. It might even be his reparation. 

Then came the day when with Diana she took her 
way to the studio and opened up her drawing books 
for the Maestro. If he were surprised he gave no 
sign. Nor did he address Joan directly. He spoke 
only to Diana. 

“Signora, the young lady, your daughter, may I 
ask where she has made her studies?” 

“The Signorina Desmond is not my daughter, but 
she is with me here to continue the studies begun 
in New York with Mr. Michael Crighton.” 

“Not so! The great architect? Um—that 
would account for the composition. Not so! 
Meraviglioso!” 

Diana laughed. She was delighted with his quick 
appreciation of Joan. 

“For the present we will call her my daughter by 
adoption.” 

“The Signora’s daughter by adoption will go far. 
Tell me a truth. I apologize not that I ask. It is 
but necessary to know. Is it possible that the 
Maestro himself could have assisted—how shall I 
say? Touched, that is it, touched up the drawings? 

299 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


And the two canvases—this illusive light—is hardly 
the work of an amateur.” 

Joan could no longer contain herself. It might 
not have been the time to speak, she had not been 
spoken to—but to have her work accredited to any 
one not herself, was a little too much. 

“I did this one in California, where there was no 
maestro, and this, and this and this. The study of 
the parrot was done from memory at odd moments. 
I would not show my work as mine, if it had been 
—tampered with!” 

“Joan, darling!” 

“Bene, bene, the signorina has pride in her draw¬ 
ing and painting, along with temperament. So! It 
is good. Tell me Signora,” still ignoring Joan, 
“how long has the signorina studied?” 

“I began when I was about four and a half, Aunt 
Di, as you know, and now I am nearly eighteen.” 

“It is the hand on the bow that makes the violin 
to sing when the hand grows older. We will do 
what we can. There must be faults of technique, of 
attack. But it is always so with the young. And 
inspiration must be inculcated.” 

Again that ominous flush across the girl’s earnest 
face. 

“I do not believe in the inculcation of inspira¬ 
tion.” 

“No? Why come to the fount of inspiration to 
the artist, if not to draw from it?” 

“Inspiration is born, not made, never enforced. 

3 °° 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 


It floods your being and forces your hand, your 
mind, to work.” 

“Joan! Joan!” 

“Bene, bene, sempre bene.” The little grey¬ 
haired man with his piercing eyes, hooked nose, 
large, benevolent mouth and lofty forehead, nodded 
with the expression of a malicious genius. Then 
for the first time he took cognizance of Joan, as 
a personality. 

“We shall see, signorina. In a year, in less than 
a year, you shall tell me whether inspiration is a 
thing dependent on externals or if it rises out of 
desert sands to the oasis of achievement. There 
are among us those who believe irrigation necessary. 
Ma, patienza—it will be seen.” 

“May I leave her now, signor?” 

“Ma si! The sun will set at five.” Somehow 
Diana gathered the impression that the maestro like 
a humanized Chanteclair, claimed jurisdiction, not 
only in the studio, but over the very orbs of heaven. 

“The sun will set about five. The classes disperse 
if so they will, to continue late, after the pranzo. 
The signora will call for the Signorina Desmond?” 

“Yes. I will come for her.” 

“It’s all right, Aunt Di. I know the way.” 

“I think the walk with you will do me good. 
Then you can tell me all about it. Wait for me.” 

A look of understanding, between the maestro of 
many young people, and Diana. And Joan was left 
to begin her career. 


301 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“I will place you alongside the Signorina Gra- 
ziella. She will impart to you the customs of our 
studios and students. A long time has she studied 
with Tacconata. This is your easel. Here, the 
canvas. I see you have brought everything else 
you need. Ah! You arrive at the moment of re¬ 
pose. I will return in half an hour.” 

A tap of the bell and rest time. Swiftly the model 
disappeared behind the great screen. Twenty pairs 
of eyes focussed themselves on this foreign acquisi¬ 
tion to Via Margutta. Five minutes passed, then 
again the bell and work was resumed. 

If Joan had been in any doubt as to inspiration, 
or its source, she might have questioned her own 
statement to the maestro. However, she did 
make a characteristically flying start to such 
effect that when Tacconata came at last to where 
she sat, he registered a greater wonder than was 
his wont. 

“For so young an artist, the attack upon the 
canvas is remarkable, and sure.” 

“I learned in doing portraits to get my resem¬ 
blance with the first sitting,” she said. 

“How is it that the great Crighton gives lessons? 
And lessons to the young? I thought it only such 
poor beggars as Julien of Paris, and Tacconata of 
Rome, who led others to creation when they would 
far rather create canvases of their own.” 

“Oh, he didn’t exactly teach me—not that way. 

I lived there. And it began as a sort of play. And 

302 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 


I had ambition-” She bit her lip. That story 

was her own. 

“A play! Dio mio! Should I then change my 
tactics to play my pupils into such an attack upon 
the canvas as this? Ecco—you have not met the 
Signorina Graziella. Signorina Joan—did I under¬ 
stand the name to be Desmond?” 

“I’m Joan Desmond,” she answered, looking at 
Graziella and holding out her hand, which the other 
took with a quick smile. 

“I have not been able to take my eyes from your 
work. You go about it as she does, she who under¬ 
stands.” 

“She who understands?” puzzled the little Ameri¬ 
can. 

“Signorina da Paolo. She is not here today. 
You will know her and she will be greatly inter¬ 
ested in your work. She is assistant to the maestro.” 

“Why did you call her ‘she who understands?’ ” 

“I will tell you,” said Graziello, lowering her 
voice so that the maestro who had passed on might 
not hear. 

“Because when our pictures are like photographs, 
dull, cold, unmeaning, along comes Signorina da 
Paolo and makes them living.” 

“But is it not for the master to show where a 
picture is wanting and teach the pupil her mistake?” 

“Not our maestro. Tacconata has a great repu¬ 
tation, he is indeed master of technique. He leads 
in drawing and manner of applying color. In other 

303 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


words he is a teacher. But expression of self, in¬ 
dividuality, he leaves to the pupil. Some of us be¬ 
lieve, and mind, I adore him, that he can show the 
way to great things, perhaps do them, but not de¬ 
velop the best in his pupils. That they must do 
themselves. He encourages—temperament. He 
may make you angry about your work. His theory 
is that feeling makes better pictures. If you are 
angry, you put in more strength.” 

“That’s funny. Perhaps that’s why he irritated 
me about my pictures being touched up.” 

“Precisely. Of course the old paint better than 
the young, because, with temperament and experi¬ 
ence combined, they do great work. Naturally. 
They have lived more, suffered more.” 

“Why suffer to paint well?” 

“To live is to suffer, signora. It is with painting 
as it is with music. One who has neither lived nor 
suffered will never make anything out of either. 
That’s why my work is like putty. I have neither 
suffered nor lived. Perhaps if my mother would 
beat me, or my father throw me into the Tiber, I 
might paint after I was fished out.” 

She raised her eyes hopelessly to heaven. 

“Why do you keep it up, then?” 

“Tacconata.” 

“Does he make you keep at it?” 

“Why, no. But,” queried the Italian spirit, “do 
you not consider him fascinating?” 

“No! He’s an old man. Do you?” 

304 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 


“But he’s extraordinary—wonderful!” went on 
Graziella, who always became the intimate friend 
of the most casual acquaintance, even to confiding 
the inmost secrets of a heart that by that very reason 
was open to the world. 

“Marvellously fascinating. Not everybody knows, 
but”—and here she lowered her voice to a whis¬ 
per—“his name is not Tacconata at all.” 

“What is his name?” 

“Ah, that would be telling. It is a story—but a 
story! He does conduct the studio and gives us 
lessons and presents enormous sums to keep the 
studio going, and to everything relating to the art 
of today in Italy for two reasons.” 

“Yes? What are they?” 

“First of all, love of the art itself. Oh, yes. 
His very soul sings it. In it he is most sincere. 
Then, love for Signorina da Paolo. He spoke to 
you about being a poor artist. He could not— 
luxuriate—in so great generosity if he were but a 
poor artist.” 

Joan laughed. It was her first encounter with 
the type of mind she was to meet often before 
her return to the direct Anglo-Saxonism of Amer¬ 
ica. 

“I thought it terribly funny when he spoke of 
Julien as being a poor artist.” 

“Ah, yes, yes. This much can I tell you. He 
is of the south. Those who knew him in his youth, 
affirm he is a duke, of long lineage and enormous 

305 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


wealth. That is, when his father or brother dies. 
I do not regard mere details. He is able to live 
where and how he pleases. We, of Margutta are 
a fad with him, a fad that links him to his two 
loves. You see, the poverty of Rome after the 
war was so great that the studio would have died 
had not he come to the rescue. He had loved it 
from his youth and could not in all reason let it 
perish. It appears he had frequently proposed mar¬ 
riage to her—the one who understands. But she 
would not listen.” 

“Why not? Was she in love with somebody 
else? Tell me.” 

“All Rome knew her romance. She was in love 
with one killed in the war, and he with her, most 
desperately. His family were bitterly opposed to 
the marriage. I understand they were violent about 
it. No, nothing against her, just a family feud. 
We have them. It was like the Montagues and 
Capulets, but she was going to marry him in spite 
of them, even to the trousseau. A week before 
the wedding was to have been came to the call to 
arms. She never saw him again. It was the punish¬ 
ment of his family that neither did they ever see him 
again. Killed? Oh, yes. At first they thought she 
would lose her mind. You see all Rome knows all 
Rome and we speak of everything.” 

“Then it is like every other city in the world,” 
mused Joan, “for in my world everybody knew what 
came to me.” 


306 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 


“So? You, too? You have suffered? Love? 
And* so young. Oh! Some day you will tell me. 
Well, it appears that in the great youth of Signorina 
da Paolo, for in Italy we are old maids unless we 
have a family and are quite settled at twenty, she 
would spend months at Capri where the palazzo of 
her family was noted for its hospitality. But when 
war came, the palazzo with all her fortune was 
swept into the coffers of the army. Voluntarily did 
she impoverish herself for her country, all honor 
to her!” Joan bowed her head. She felt she would 
love this woman who had lived and understood. 
Graziella continued: “Speak of patriots in red Gari¬ 
baldi shirts and the black of Mussolini! Here was 
one in silk and silver who sacrificed all, all for Italy 
and freedom. And do you think those who had 
accepted her hospitality cared? Not they. His 
family? They laughed. ‘She’s but joined the army 
of martyrs,’ they said, ‘and thereby saves her soul. 
What is it to us?’ ” 

As she listened to the recital, Joan’s face was 
alight with its romance. 

“What a heroine! How does the maestro come 
in?” 

“She was alone, bereft, beautiful, the daughter 
of his friend. And seeing her quite free he proposed 
marriage. You see he had always loved her, but 
thought himself too old. Then, there was 
Raphaello.” 

“W-who did you say?” 

307 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Raphaello. Her love whom she adored was 
Raphaello.” 

“Yes, yes?” 

“He was indeed cavaliere senza paura, senza 
rimpovero” 

“But how did you know all this? It is most 
sacred and sweet.” 

“Ma certes it’s sacred and sweet and a secret. 
All Rome knows it.” 

“He was killed. How pitiful, but glorious too 
to die for his country.” 

“He was killed.” 

“Then?” 

“Then, after a long while during which no one 
knew where she was or what she did, she came 
back. Most of her friends thought she’d been in a 
place for the insane. But that was not true.” 

“Then?” 

“She had to eat, poor dear. How to do it? She 
could dance like a nymph in the wood, she could 
sing like a seraph. The Costanzi offered her a 
great sum if she would but dance once at each opera. 
It would have been a good avviso for the Constanzi. 
She can dance. The temptation was great. She 
loathed the idea, but had to have money. Then 
came Toccanata with his inspiration. He would 
reopen the Via. He would call the students to him 
whether six came or sixty. And he must have an 
assistant?” 

“But could she paint?” 

“Yes! That is what she does best of all. But 

308 


IN VIA MARGUTTA 


in Rome unless an artist is pushed she makes but 
little. I doubt if she eats much, the slender Signor- 
ina, but it appears she had to earn money for a 
cause unknown. There is no one to question her 
reasons for what she does. She has to have money. 
So, she became the assistant here and puts the heart 
she broke into the work of each one of us. You, 
I think will need her little, for I can see you paint 
as she paints, with soul, and as Graziella will never 
learn to paint.” 

“Perhaps if you paid more attention to the tech¬ 
nique of the maestro you would learn the founda¬ 
tion, then, later on when l-love comes, you would 
put in the feeling.” 

“Love? But I thought you knew. I do love, 
and it is because of my love I cannot paint.” 

“How is that?” 

“Because when he comes to me with what he has 
to teach I cannot put my mind on my work. I can¬ 
not hear his words. I can only fasten my eyes on 
his face. My heart beats so that I am quite 
deaf.” 

“Not the maestro?” 

“Per che no? Certes. The maestro.” 

“But,” asked bewildered Joan, “he loves the 
signorina, who understands.” 

“Certes. And he loves me, too. But as a child 
he loves me. I am older than you. I am nineteen. 
It is not with the great passion he loves me. That 
is how he loves her?* 

“What are you going to do about it, then?” 

309 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“Oh, la! la! Some day she will lose her heart 
to some one else. They all do it. Then, then I 
catch my Tacconata on the rebound.” 

Joan laughed, with tears falling down her cheeks, 
while Graziella looked at her in amazement. What 
was there* drole about that? She could not see. 
When Joan could speak she asked: 

“Tell me what is she like, dark or fair?” 

“Ash gold. She has the blood of Florence min¬ 
gled with Rome. Her eyes are grey like the eyes 
of a kitten, and her little impudent nose has some¬ 
times freckles on it. The short upper lip Tacconata 
considers impertinent, and she has clouds of ash- 
gold hair. The round, grey eyes are fringed with 
twilight. So you can very well see that with her 
hands that paint, her lovely voice, her dancing feet, 
her great understanding she is a woman who could 
win the love of any man were she not loyal as the 
saint she is, to the dead. Because of that, Graziella 
is content to wait.” 

“You are right. What is her first name?” 

“Her name? Why, I thought I told you. Her 
name’s Romilda,” said Graziella. 


3 IQ 


CHAPTER XX 


“one whose hair was bound with jewels” 

T HE great bell clanged through the corridors of 
the Trinita when Diana pulled the bell-cord. 
Joan had grown familiar with the mysterious neigh¬ 
bour across the piazetta and Hana and Passiflore. 
Why not she as well? Always questioning, always 
wondering, Diana asked what could be the sub¬ 
stance of this creed that held its faithful bound to 
its teaching, to each other, and to the feet of God, 
changelessly. 

Apart from outer influence that had directed life 
and living, she was determined to find out. Two 
hours were to be spent before she would have to 
call at the studio for Joan. The child herself could 
have told her what she wanted to know, at least in 
part. There were certain things she could neither 
speak of to Joan nor Hana, but here was her neigh¬ 
bour, and here she would attempt to solve her dif¬ 
ficulty. 

“I am Diana Travers,” she said to the old nun 
who opened the door, “and I live at that little yel¬ 
low house across the piazetta.” She pointed to it, 
but the discreet religious smilingly shook her head. 

3ii 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


She would only look out to the world from an 
upper window, where often at dawn she raised her 
heart with the sun’s rays where they touched the 
Dome- 

“Not even there?” asked Diana. 

“No. It’s not against the rule, but some of us, 
having little opportunity to mortify the senses in 
our convent here, rather like to keep our ‘sister 
eyes’ in cloister!” 

“It would be hard for me. I want to see every¬ 
thing in Rome.” 

“And so you should. You are young and Rome 
is full of things worth seeing. I only answer for 
myself, signorina. Won’t you come in?” 

D iana followed with some trepidation. The 
place held mystery to her unfamiliar vision. Once 
inside, the feeling vanished at sight of groups of 
happy children, friends and parents gathered to¬ 
gether talking animatedly and laughing as if every¬ 
thing that happened were a huge and delightful 
jest. Everywhere were the ribbons of honor. 
Some of the children carried little round muffs 
that appeared to be made of the same material as 
their uniforms. Some of them sat sedately with 
feet firmly planted on red velvet footstools. In 
manner and attitude they might have been out of 
a generation or two ago, but the voices, the dancing 
eyes, belied the sedate deportment. 

“You are wondering about the muffs,” laughed 
a voice beside her. 


3 12 



ONE WHOSE HAIR WAS BOUND WITH JEWELS 

u Oh, how do you do? Yes, the muffs and quaint 
footstools. I was curious.” 

“The floors are cold, but it’s early for the muffs, 
though they carry them when they please. There’s 
so little coal since the war, and our Roman winters 
are frigid. That’s why,” she laughingly explained, 
then sat down waiting for her guest to say how, if 
in any way, the Trinita could serve her. 

“Please don’t think me presuming or pushing to 
come without any particular reason. I’m not even 
a Catholic, just a neighbour.” 

“That is every reason for coming, is it not? We 
can’t go to you, you see. You are English? Ameri¬ 
can? The accent is English.” 

“I am from New York.” Then impulsively Diana 
broke out with the real reason for her visit. “I’ve 
been brought close to Catholics of late. I never 
felt free to ask them questions, why they are dif¬ 
ferent, somehow, from us. Why you believe the 
same doctrine from one end of the world to the 
other while we never seem to know what we believe, 
and no two of us could give the same answer. 
Surely, if faith is a God-given thing, not man¬ 
made, it must be the same everywhere and at 
all times. I’ve been puzzling about it and I 
thought perhaps you might help clear up some of 
the doubts.” 

“Our Superior is not here today, she had to go 
to the mother-house for a meeting of Provincials. 
Mother Celestino who opened the door came to me 

313 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


because she thought perhaps you would rather see 
an English-speaking nun. I am Mother Fitzger¬ 
ald.” 

“That was good of her. She must have seen 
that my Italian is hardly for polite conversation, 
though I understand it. I wonder if some one 
here might give me an hour a day? She could 
teach me Italian and tell me something of your reli¬ 
gious phiolosophy, that is, as much as a stupid soul 
like mine could take in,” she laughed. 

“Then I can assure you you will take in a great 
deal,” the religious answered, an amused look in her 
eyes. “Knowledge of one’s own limitations is some¬ 
times the key to great learning.” 

“If you come to know me you will find out that 
humility is not my strongest point. But seriously 
tell me, what about theology? Do you teach 
it?” 

“Knowledge of God and the relation of the soul 
to Him is our metier” 

“I hoped so. I thought it might be.” 

“Why do you want to study theology?” 

“I am nothing. Oh, I was an Episcopalian. I’m 
nothing now.” 

“Yet you know the soul needs God.” 

“That I learned through suffering.” 

“I have known many people who have suffered, 
yet they are without faith. You are not like them.” 

“I have always—felt—God. That’s why. How, 
I don’t know. There isn’t a soul in the world to 

314 


ONE WHOSE HAIR WAS BOUND WITH JEWELS 

whom I could speak as I am speaking to you, but 
I am suffocated by the need of knowing, and I can 
talk to you as I could not even talk to a priest, 
though I have only just met you. I’ve—made 
mistakes.” 

The quick compassion in the other woman’s face 
refuted any doubt she might have had about speak¬ 
ing so freely. 

“I’ve made worse than mistakes. Shut away in 
your convent, with only the highest motives for liv¬ 
ing and doing, you might not understand how any¬ 
one in the world could go through the school of 
forgetfulness—and graduate.” She stopped there, 
wondering if she had shocked Mother Fitzgerald. 
The nun sat silent, waiting for her to go on. 

“There is something behind your eyes you are 
not saying, Mother.” 

“I was only thinking of a line of Oxenham’s, 
‘the things that seemed not good, yet turned to 
good.’ ” 

“I’m afraid the things that seemed not good in 
my case were too bad ever to turn to good.” 

Mother Fitzgerald shook her head as she an¬ 
swered : 

“The hand that stoned Saint Stephen was the 
hand of Saul. Saul was not a good man. But Saul’s 
hand became the hand of Saint Paul.” 

“You mean that?” 

“Of course, of course. The mouth that uttered 
the words, ‘I know Him not,’ when the cock crowed 

3*5 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


thrice, was the mouth that pleaded, ‘Crucify me 
head downwards, for I am not worthy to be cru¬ 
cified as He was cruicified.’ ” 

“But, Mother.” Diana trembled as she said it, 
“In my search for forgetfulness, I led souls astray. 
Oh, I know I did.” 

“There was a woman whose hair was bound with 
jewels and whose eyes smiled souls to their destruc¬ 
tion—perhaps. We do not know. Yet, they were 
the eyes whose tears bathed the feet of our Lord, 
and whose unjeweled hair wiped them. All these, 
‘things that turned to good!’ ” 

“It was centuries ago.” 

“Would it not have been futile for our Master 
to have died to save only His contemporaries? Time 
is all one with God. The mistakes of yesterday are 
the mistakes of today. It’s all the same. And His 
mercy is the same.” 

“You mean forgiveness?” 

“Just that.” 

“And a chance to begin again?” 

“The chance to be reborn.” 

“What about those who have known? I never 
knew, but there have always been bad people in 
every church. Some of them know. What about 
bad Catholics?” 

“Infinite mercy just the same for all who humbly 
acknowledge their fault and ask forgiveness.” 

“God gives even them the chance to come back? 
Suppose their fault had been not only sins of weak- 

316 


ONE WHOSE HAIR WAS BOUND WITH JEWELS 

ness, of the flesh, of the thousand and one things 
by which men and women offend God, but suppose 
they had added to everything the sin of the fallen 
angels, what then?” 

“Infinite mercy, pardon,—and the opportunity 
to become great saints.” 

“Even such pride of intellect as sent the angels 
hurling down to hell?” 

“Even that. When He said to forgive seventy 
times seven He meant everything. You see in His 
mercy He did not let them die in their sin. Some¬ 
times the justice of God calls sinners to an account¬ 
ing at the moment of their sin, but as their is no 
limitation to the breadth of God’s understanding 
of human frailty, neither is there a limit to His 
mercy and forgiveness.” 

“I used to think the doctrine of the Church nar¬ 
row because it seems somehow so bound up in dogma. 
I believe now it must be the broadest system in all 
the world. 

“It’s entirely logical and simple. Love God, love 
your neighbour as yourself. Those who sin either 
fail to love God or their fellow man. It all analyzes 
to that. There are many outside the Church who 
can never be made to understand the immense sim¬ 
plicity of it. Nor will those who oppose her under¬ 
stand her doctrine, that the mercy of God is 
infinite.” 

“It seems easy enough for us Protestants, or un¬ 
believers, to be forgiven when we come into the 

3 T 7 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

Church, but what do fallen-away Catholics have 
to do?” 

“Just mea-culpa. They do not always find it easy 
to say. One look at the crucifix should make it 
easier.” 

“You mean, Confession?” 

“Yes. I mean sorrow for the sin, confession to a 
duly authorized priest, along with the firm inten¬ 
tion to sin no more, and satisfaction, that is, doing 
the penance the priest may give.” 

“What is that?” 

“A few prayers, usually Our Fathers, Hail Marys, 
Glorias, sometimes perhaps, a litany. There is a 
priest here in Rome who gives his penitents a chapter 
of the Bible to read.” 

“But, Catholics are not allowed to read the 
Bible!” 

Mother Fitzgerald laughed at the ancient fallacy. 
It was brought to her notice at least once in every 
year. 

“The Bible is one of the few obligatory studies 
in our convents and colleges the whole world over. 
In my experience I have learned that we are far 
more familiar with it than those outside the Church. 
The notion that we do not read it is one of the many 
misconceptions passed from one ignorant person to 
the next, though I really believe the world is grow¬ 
ing more enlightened with regard to us. It’s only a 
question of time.” 

“It is all very comforting,” Diana said. “Who 

318 


ONE WHOSE HAIR WAS BOUND WITH JEWELS 

knows but that in my case God has used the ‘things 
that seemed not good/ to make my soul so utterly 
weary that now I turn to Him for rest?” 

“Not unlikely. The Shepherd has His own way 
with the sheep and lambs—some by pleasant paths, 
some by the thorny route. It’s according to the 

strength of each. But-” Diana noticed that her 

eyes were Irish and had a way of dancing when she 
spoke. 

“Whether it’s by the cross or by pleasant ways 
He is at the top of the road. He is Paradise. Those 
who turn their back on Him lose Heaven.” 

“I think the doctrine of mercy is the most won¬ 
derful thing of all.” 

“Why not? It’s only the natural law that we 
must suffer here or hereafter for wrong-doing. But 
suffering is sometimes a joy. The thief on the cross 
suffered physically, but in his repentance his spirit 
was lifted then and there to Paradise. What did 
the physical suffering mean to him? It was forgot¬ 
ten in the joy of reigning with the Master. In all 
the gospels there is never one instance of His re¬ 
fusing pardon to a sinner who asked for it. And 
there are many instances of His giving pardon where 
the sinner did not ask. The Pharisees critized Him 
for His attitude, but the Pharisees were mostly 
hypocrites. He compared them to ‘whited sepul- 
cres, beautiful without, but inside, full of dead men’s 
bones and all rottenness.’ ” 

“Today though, Mother, people avoid the sinner 

319 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

as they would the plague, even when the sinner is 
sincerely repentent and wants to get back.” 

“Not He. Not the Church, nor those who fol¬ 
low Him in the way. I so often think, given any of 
us, different temptations, opportunities, would we 
have resisted? One can’t tell. Only by keeping 
close to Him we get the strength and grace we need 
to hold ourselves ready for the End. That comes to 
us all.” 

“That is what frightens me. I know if I live five 
years or fifty, I will die. My life has been such a 
wreck.” 

“That lies between you and God, my dear, dear 
friend.” 

“Oh, but I must tell you. You must let me tell 
you quickly and not stop me. I refused to bring 
children into the world. I know now what it meant 
and some of the things it led to. I can only blame 
myself for my agony of loneliness to-day. If we 
had had children they would have kept us together— 
my husband and me. And if I had done no other 
good in life I would at least have had their innocent 
selves to plead for me. I had accepted no responsi¬ 
bilities, not even Larry. I might have been so good 
to him that he would not have minded all the rest. 
But I refused even to make a home for him. I was 
divorced, lived recklessly, blindly, most unhappily, 
though I laughed through everything till I learned 
how to weep. Then chance threw a poor woman 
and her child my way. I, had never given one thought 

3 2 ° 


ONE WHOSE HAIR WAS BOUND WITH JEWELS 

to the poor, to anyone, really. I love the child. They 
are both with me now. Hana takes care of the 
house and of us, bless her. The child is—a genius.” 

“Chance?” The nun’s eyes were dancing more 
than ever. 

“I thought it was chance, but—do you know, I 
rather—believe it was God.” 


321 


CHAPTER XXI 


A CABLEGRAM 

“IT THAT is it, Passy? Why are you waiting 

VV down here? You look so—grave and some¬ 
how happy.” 

“Come upstairs to your room. I was afraid 
you’d slip by me and I had to tell you first.” The 
girl’s face was illuminated and the hand clutching 
Joan’s and holding it while they climbed the stairs 
had a strained intensity. Even Passiflore’s step, so 
often dragging, was light and she drew her along. 
When they reached the landing she closed the door 
softly behind them so that not even her vigilant 
mother would hear. 

“It’s the greatest secret I have ever had.” 

Joan’s eyes grew larger and she waited, breath¬ 
less. 

“My work was' chosen, out of two hundred it was 
first.” 

“For what, Passy ? Quick, for what ?” 

“To be sent to Paris, at once.” 

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” She caught Passiflore 
tightly to her in a gigantic hug, then; 

“I thought it was for Aunt Diana’s Christmas? 
Tell me.” 


322 


A CABLEGRAM 


“Hush, they might hear. Come away from the 
door—over there by the window.” 

Passiflore knelt on the little window-seat and 
Joan, joyous, perched beside her, wondering. 

“Ardinelli came from Florence unexpectedly. It 
appears it’s the way he always does come. At the 
Academy they said it would not be till after the New 
Year.” 

“Yes, yes. Go on. It’s too good to be true!” 

“First he set aside five of the models. Even to 
be one of the five was like being in Heaven.” 

“I should think so.” 

“Then he set aside the work of four. I was sorry 
for the boy whose little Bacchante he rejected. And 
yet, he will work again, and all five will receive hon¬ 
orable mention. That is something.” 

“I hope I may do as well.” 

“After that, the professori gathered together and 
put another one aside.” 

“Your heart must have stopped beating.” 

“I was saying Aves. I closed my eyes, so great 
was the intensity with which I prayed. There was a 
moment of suspense that ran through all the room. 
I felt, but did not see it. Then, a shout—‘Passi¬ 
flore!’ they called my name. I opened my eyes. 
Ardinelli stood beside the judge’s table, and on it 
was one model only, my head of Lady Diana.” 
Again the swift and loving arms were about her and 
Joan was weeping for joy. 

“Passy, Passy, darling. Six weeks, and this! 

323 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

Aunt Diana knew when she said you were a 
genius.” 

“I had confidence in God. That was my only 
genius,” answered the little hunchback, with eyes 
shining. 

“Tell me more.” 

“The next part is even more wonderful. Ardinelli 
usually goes to Paris for the Spring exhibition, but 
it appears that on account of the many important 
people there now, a special exhibition is to be held. 
He starts to-morrow and takes my work with him. 
Then, it will be shown again in April.” 

“Was that why he came before they expected 
him?” 

“That was the reason.” 

“Was your work completely finished?” 

“All but the signature. Joan-” A blush 

spread over her face as she told how the great 
Ardinelli had said: 

“And now, Signorina, as there is no time to be 
lost, will you please write in your signature?” and 
how, with the professori looking on, the great man 
standing by, she had modeled the passion-flower 
and caught it in the silken folds at Diana’s breast, 
and said, ‘that is my signature, signore.’ Then 
Joan, he—kissed me on both cheeks! He was so 
pleased. 

“The accolade!” Joan cried, “Oh, this will be 
the most beautiful thing you could have given Aunt 
Di for Christmas after all.” 

324 



A CABLEGRAM 


“Yes. None of them could believe until I proved 
it, that I had done the head from memory without 
taking any measures. Ardinelli said that was an¬ 
other reason for accepting it as first. He seemed to 
think it unusual, but I have never taken many meas¬ 
ures. The Lady Diana is printed in my heart.” 

“I don’t believe she ever had a photograph.” 

“Only this one I carry here,” said Passiflore, the 
hand that knew Diana’s face so well resting on her 
breast. 

“No one else could have done it,” said Joan, 
shaking her head with emphasis. 

“You could. You paint without a model, often 
and often.” 

“That’s because my work isn’t orthodox, though 
I must say Tacconata is far fairer than they say 
Julien is, because he lets us use our imagination as 
much as we like. The others only ‘paint what they 
see.’ I prefer to paint the pictures in my soul, just 
as you did Aunt Di, from the love in your heart. 
It’s the creative thing that is the most beautiful. 
I really like to have some kind of a model, then I 
w r ork around it and in the end it might not have 
been, just as well. You should see Graziella work!” 
Joan laughed, it was a huge joke. “She has a tiny 
camera, and when no one is looking she takes 
the model’s picture. Then she enlarges it and traces 
the enlargement on canvas. There’s not a trick 
she does not use. Some day Tacconata is going to 
find out.” 

3 2 5 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“What docs he think?” 

“He is puzzled. Often I have heard him say 
to Graziella: ‘You have the skill of a photog¬ 
rapher, but no soul.’ Little he dreams how right 
he is!” 

“The rage just now at the Academy is ‘Cubism.’ 
I hate it. We are supposed to model not as the 
object is, but as we think it should be. It sometimes 
leads to frightful atrocities. If the professori allow 
them to slip through by favoritism—it does happen 
—or because they, themselves are of the more mod¬ 
ern school, Ardinelli throws them out.” 

“What are you going to do now, Passy?” 

“I will make the Lady Diana a tiny head like the 
first. With it I will give her a letter Ardinelli 
promises me, with a critique of my work.” 

“She will die with pride and joy.” 

“She’ll rejoice and live! Oh, if what I succeed 
in doing might only repay her for all she has been 
to us!” 

“And what she has done for me, too, Passy. No 
one realizes but you and Hana. What would have 
become of me? After—that—happened I could 
never have stayed at home and faced the people who 
knew what a silly I was. Have you noticed some¬ 
thing about Aunt Diana since we came to Rome? 
Changing, I mean, softer in a way, and happier.” 

“Yes, I have noticed it. It is the peace of the 
Eternal City. She tells me often there is somethincr 
in breathing the air of the martyrs.” 

326 


A CABLEGRAM 

At that moment the door opened and Diana her¬ 
self looked in. 

“My conspirators! What is it all about?” 

“You,” answered Joan, as Diana came to the 
window, “but you are not to know one thing about 
it yet.” 

Diana did not smile then, as she might have done, 
but put her arm around Joan, whom she had grown 
to love as much as Passiflore. 

“I came up to your room, dear, because I had 
to see you. There is news from America. Wait 
here, Passy. I must speak to Joan alone, and we 
will go down to the balcony.” 

While the two young girls had been discussing the 
great secret that w T as not to be divulged till Christ¬ 
mas, night had fallen, and a fragrant darkness 
gathered about the little balcony where Diana’s hard 
task lay. She had never encountered a difficulty 
such as this, all the more so that Christmas was 
only a few weeks off and impulsive Joan already 
steeped in preparations for it. 

She held in her hand the message that had come 
late that afternoon. 

“A cablegram! How fine that is, Aunt Di! It 
always brings them so close, right up to today, 
doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, darling. It does bring them close, indeed 
it does.” 

“Is it from Mummie? from Daddy?” 

“From your mother, precious.” 

327 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Let me see it in my hands.” 

But she caught the glint of tears in Diana’s eyes, 
and they frightened her. 

“Oh, Aunt Di! What is it? You are not laugh¬ 
ing with me now.” 

“No, darling. Aunt Di is not laughing now. Be 
comforted though, for your mother will come to you 
after the New Year.” 

“This one is for me and is not open.” Then, 
“Did you get one too?” 

“Yes, darling.” 

“Then tell me. I can’t—see—to read—mine-” 

“The message just said—‘Jack, in greatest peace, 
last night,’ in greatest peace, Joan—my poor little 
girl.” 


328 




CHAPTER XXII 


ARA COELI 

F or seven days the broad staircase up the 
Quirinale’s hill had been thronged with peo¬ 
ple hastening to hear the children preach their 
Christmas sermons to the Santo Bambino. 

Out of its venerable shrine the little image of the 
Child of Bethlehem miraculously saved from ship¬ 
wreck about the seventeenth century on its way from 
Jerusalem, was placed in the manger prepared for 
it. Indeed, there are those who say that part of the 
manger itself had held the Infant Christ. No one 
is left to tell whether or not the ancient olive-wood 
from which the Bambino is carved were the tree un¬ 
der which the Christ-made Man had agonized. Cer¬ 
tain it is that from Olivet it came and with it, sweet 
tradition of power to heal and comfort. So, all who 
are in Rome must venerate the Child at Ara Coeli 
and follow with other pilgrims up the wide stair 
sanctified through centuries, by the passing of chil¬ 
dren’s feet. 

Intermingling with the throng of Roman citizens 
came fair-haired Florentines and auburn-tressed 
Venetians, men and women from the North and 

329 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

sunbrowned peasants out of Sicily. Children, chil¬ 
dren everywhere! 

Students flocked from each of the ecclesiastical 
colleges. Under their flat priestly hats, the faces 
laughing, earnest as the case might be, appeared 
absurdly young. Some of the forestieri mistook the 
German boys in scarlet for cardinals and asked how 
it could be that princes of the Church would wander 
about with such informality, even at Christmas time! 

Alert, heads up, not losing sight or consciousness 
of a single part of the festa came American 
students, whose red sashes, white Roman collar, 
and sombre black robes relieved by a line of blue, 
made up the sacred colors they had come to carry 
with devoted dignity, even to the throne of Peter. 

Trinitarians, like other knights of the Holy Grail, 
came robed in white, great cross of red and blue 
emblazoned on the breast, and picturesque Domini¬ 
cans whose black cloaks only partly hid the fleecy 
garment underneath. Canadians in black, walked 
sombrely, soberly, but sparkling eyes belied the 
gloomy import of their dress. Sons of Poland wore 
the emerald sash that somehow seemed out of har¬ 
mony when one caught sight of Ireland’s students, 
beltless, in red and black, where they mingled with 
Rumanian boys in soutanes of deep sea-blue that 
were touched with yellow. Vatican purple was 
everywhere to be seen, and the Scotch lads from 
Via Quatro Fontana whose habit differed from that 
of the Vatican only in its black soprano , and crimson 

330 


ARA COELI 


sash. Belgian, Bohemian, Armenian, English, 
French, Spanish, Propaganda, all gathered together 
for the wonder-feast of the children. Here, there, 
everywhere, sons of Saint Francis, he who had 
brought to the hearts of men this very tender cus¬ 
tom of venerating the crib of Bethlehem. All three 
branches of the Order of Assizi were represented, 
Friars Minor, Capuchins, and Conventualists, 
brown-habited, black-robed, picturesque. 

“Get the colour of the ensemble, Joan. It is 
sublime.” 

“I’ve been watching. Passy, I wonder why some 
of the women are crying. It’s not a time for tears.” 

“Some people will cry, no matter when. But let’s 
ask the old priest behind Lady Diana. Really, some 
of the women coming out of the church look as if 
they had been at a funeral instead of a feast.” 

Looking up at the kindly priest, Joan asked: 

“Father, why are so many of the women crying? 
It’s Christmas time and people shouldn’t be sad.” 

“It is the day of the afflicted children. They keep 
the best day out of the eight for them, the* crippled 
and disabled. That’s why, figlia mia. If you want 
good places you had better hurry in. “These dear 
boys,” he laughed as he indicated the mass of stu¬ 
dents constantly on the increase, “are apt to fill the 
church.” 

Diana turned and asked, “Could you be our guide, 
Father? Pm rather appalled at the crowd. It doesn’t 

matter so much for some of us, but—see-” 

331 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


He followed the direction of her eyes to Passiflore 
standing patiently. The wait had been long and 
she was ready to drop with fatigue. Hana had a 
supporting arm about her, but Passy could not en¬ 
dure it much longer. 

“Ohe, but that makes it simple,” said the priest. 
“It is for all such as she. Come. I will lead the 
way with the little girl.” 

So taking Passy by the hand, he went ahead while 
the crowd fell back, some with murmurs of pity, 
while others made horns behind her back, and Joan, 
who saw, could have murdered them. 

Close up to the pulpit was an open space and there, 
at a word from the priest, some altar boys brought 
chairs for Diana and Passiflore. Hana and Joan 
stood behind them. 

The children who were to preach were gathering 
beside the pulpit. Those who had made their ser¬ 
mons stood or sat on the floor, listening to the others. 
The Bambino, covered with silks and gleaming with 
precious stones lay in the manger. A hush fell, then 
a childish treble- 

“I was a lamb in Isreal. Like a lamb born blind, 
I could not see the light.” 

(“Look, Passy. His eyes—I don’t believe he is 
six years old-”) 

“One night the flock made stirring, uneasily. I 
had no father, no mother. I was just a little lonely, 
sightless thing. I pressed my sides close to the sheep 
for warmth. I was so useless. Why was I born? 

332 




ARA COELI 


Not one in all the flock seemed to care. I kept up 
with them, being afraid to go alone. But I was a 
trouble to the shepherd for it was hard to follow. 
Sometimes he had to go after me and bring me 
back. 

There came this wonder-night when the stirring 
was so great that I somehow managed to keep 
close. The hills were endless and I did not know 
where we were going. Then about me did I hear 
sweet singing, voices from above, they were. They 
sang melodiously, ‘Glory to God on high, and peace 
on earth to men of good will.’ I thought they sang 
to the lambs too, and the sheep. Peace! We came 
to where there was shelter. Though I cannot see 
I always know where there is shelter. Being little 
I crept through past the rams and greater sheep and 
came to a place where straw had fallen on the 
ground. I know a manger. This one was sweet¬ 
smelling and so low that my head touched its rim. 
Then, something reached from out the manger and 
rested on my head. It was the little hand of a Child. 
Into my heart came happiness and the peace the 
voices sang of and into my life came love. 

And so do peace and love dwell where He is, and 
with my blind eyes do I see the Light. The light 
was that I, even I because He loves me, shall re¬ 
main hidden away from all that is ugly and unhappy 
in this life. “Oh, Bambino mio,” the child reached 
out his hand to where he had been told the image 
lay, “I thank Him Whose likeness thou art, for 

333 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


giving me life, and the love of Him, even blindness. 
When He calls me He will open my eyes for the 
first time to the glory of His face.” 

A rough man with a sheep-skin thrown about his 
brawny shoulders went quickly forward to lift the 
child down from the pulpit and pressed him to his 
breast. “Padre mio, thy tears are falling on my face 
like rain.” 

“They are tears of thankfulness, piccolo, piccolo 

• >> 
mio. 

“I had to hobble on my crutches to get to Bethle¬ 
hem,” announced a small girl who followed in the 
place of the shepherd’s boy. “Thou knowest, Oh, 
Bambino who knows everything, that to my mother 
I was born all lame and crooked.” Passiflore looked 
around at her mother with a smile, and took her 
hand and held it. “I knew,” went on the child, 
“Who was to be born on Christmas night. I would 
have crawled to reach the baby King if I could have 
reached Him in no other way. The ground was 
rough and there were stones. I sometimes stumbled 
on the stones. Not everybody I met was kind and 
I was often without food or drink. A woman passed 
me on the way and when I asked her for a piece of 
bread she said, ‘If I had my way there would be 
no children like you born in all the world.’ It hurt 
my heart to hear her say those words, for the King 
that was born in Bethlehem gave me life for a pres¬ 
ent. I had never deserved it. I cried, and when I 
did, a resplendant one appeared at my side, though 

334 


ARA COELI 


I did not see him come. He cheered me with words 
out of the land of Afterwards. I have food 
that thou knowest not of. Take ye and eat.’ 
The food was sweet and filled me with strength. So 
on I went and came at last to a tiny cave all hidden 
in the hillside. The resplendant one led me in. And 
on a manger—just like that one,” she pointed to 
the crib, “lay One. Oh, no, He did not sleep. He 
looked at me, and the light of His eyes did speak. 
He wanted my body to be just as it is for a short 
time, while life lasts, that when the real Life wakes 
in Paradise, my soul shall be like the resplendant, 
who led me in. I wait, Bambino! I thank Thee 
for my crooked bones. I thank Thee for that I was 
let to live and know Thee, Giver of all good gifts, 
Hope of all whom Thou dost bring through the 
passage-way of this short world, to Thee, beyond.” 
She had hardly disappeared when Hana, distressed 
stooped down. 

“Oh, Lady Diana, they are never going to allow 
this one in the pulpit! It would be too cruel.” 

“Why not, if it makes him happy? His parents 
are with him you see.” 

“But he looks as if he had no mind with which 
to speak at all!” 

“Hush. Wait. They know.” 

They knew indeed! Warped in mind even as 
in body, the boy of ten had looked forward to this 
moment from the year before, as he had looked for¬ 
ward to it since the earliest day he had been taken to 

335 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the Ara Coelia to listen to the other children. They 
had been afraid at first to let him speak. But he 
had begged so earnestly that the priests advised the 
parents to consent. And the child never forgot. 
There, in the crib, lay an image of Him Who would 
one day raise him whole and strong in mind to the 
joy of which Saint Paul had said, “Eye hath not 
seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart 
of man to conceive the joys my Father hath prepared 
for those who love Him.” And that was all he 
knew about it, and for him, everything. 

“Th ere shall be born to Israel One. Bambino 
mio! Bambino mio! Gasparo sees thee. Gasparo 
loves thee. Padre in Cielo blessed be Thy name!” 

Gasparo’s moment had come, and gone. Kindly 
hands lifted him down, and at once he began to live 
again for the following year, at once to compose the 
sermon. 

So, the procession continued. One had been a 
star at the coming of its God, many were shepherd’s 
children, and some had followed in the train of the 
three wise men. But all had taken part in the 
blessed Night, just as each one would take part in 
the dawn of eternal Day. And every single one 
gave thanks. And closest to their hearts parents 
held the broken ones, and lifted grateful voices to 
their Lord Who gave. 

Hidden behind a veritable phalanx of students, 
stood a man, evidently a stranger, listening intently 
marvelling at what he saw and heard. “Who teaches 

336 


ARA COELI 


the little beggars?” he asked the scholastic nearest 
whom he stood. 

“No one teaches them the sermons. Nuns or 
priests train them when they recite verses. But the 
sermons have to be original.” 

“How on earth do they know what to say? It 
might not be entirely orthodox, might it?” 

“No danger. They drink in their religion as 
they take their daily bread. The faith of a Catholic 
is just a part of his every-day life.” 

“It ought to be. I’ve only been one myself a short 
time. But it seems to me a remarkable thing that 
children as afflicted as these should seem resigned, 
even happy!” 

“It’s the duty of Mother Church to hold up hearts, 
sir. I know a great many of the parents. You see 
we go among the poor to help where we can. The 
mothers and fathers tell their children the great 
truths as they themselves have had them from their 
parents. If they can read, they read them Bible 
stories and legends of the church. If not, the priests 
and nuns do it. But even the poorest and least edu¬ 
cated of them know their Latin, and most of them 
have the Scriptures at their finger-tips.” 

“Look!” exclaimed the man. “Who is that boy? 
I’m sure I have seen him before, though I only 
came last night.” 

“I can’t tell you, but his face is familiar to 
me, too. He might be one of the acolytes from 
Saint Peter’s. We get to know them by sight.” 

337 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Isn’t he older than the other children?” 

“He looks about twelve. Maybe the fathers 
have arranged something a little different-” 

“Passy—his eyes—the voice—who can he b,e?” 

“Hush, Joan, it’s like a wood-wind thing-” 

“From the ends of the earth, closed out. Oh, I 
do not speak to the Bambino lying there, little image 
carved out of an olive tree. It is the heart of the 
Universe I want to reach to, and touch. For I 
stand before you—the Unborn.” 

The throng gasped. As steel to magnet it drew 
closer. 

“The Father wills. He wills, Who called light to 
being, Who formed the earth and sent it whirling 
into space, Who hung the sun in the firmament and 
flung the flame of it out to the heavens, Who sus¬ 
pended the moon by night, radiant and cold, Who 
swung to the firmament planets and myriad stars, 
He wills. 

“Out of nothing but His breath He made the 
immortal soul of man to which the earth, the moon, 
the stars, the sky, the sun, and all the Universe are 
nothing. The soul of one alone among these afflicted 
children, is worth them all. 

“The soul of man, immortal, glorious, shall live 
on and on, even as He, unending. The sun shall 
cease to give its light, the stars shall fall from 
heaven, the very powers of the earth shall be moved. 
But the soul of man shall live. He wills. 

“From the dust of the earth He fashions about 

338 




ARA COELI 


a soul the human frame. Why? He knows why, 
for He is God. What man could do what He has 
done even to the least degree? Little, impotent, 
having what he has from God alone, receiving such 
need of grace and power as God sees fit to give, 
man questions. Man, today a breath, tomorrow 
naked spirit on trial before its Judge,— questions! 

“I am the Unborn. In omnipotent Mind I am 
given gifts past the puny conception of any created 
being. In omnipotent Mind I should have breathed 
sweet air, and rested on my mother’s bosom, should 
have been given opportunity to earn my bread and 
hers, the joy of service, plentitude of love. Then 
when the years of my appointed time were done, 
straight to the bosom of Eternal Love should I 
have had the right to go! In His appointed time 
should I have fulfilled my destiny. I am the Un¬ 
born. You, who should have conceived me, have 
denied me. Little child, like other human children, 
you have refused me life and light and air and food 
and happiness. 

“Think you not, Oh, ye who have rejected me, 
that He Who would not let a sparrow fall, would 
have considered all my need? He gave you life, 
but you have denied me right to live. He gave you 
raiment. You would not clothe me. He gave you 
music and singing and books and learning and every 
good there is. All these, even these, you have kept 
from me. 

“You have denied me the right to serve my coun- 

339 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


try, to till the soil, had there been need, to scatter 
gifts and graces through the land. You have robbed 
your nation, you who boast your love of it. You 
have perjured your loyalty. Loyalty is not conson¬ 
ant with robbery of human-kind, and that is what 
you, who have denied life to those whom the Father 
would have sent, are doing every day. Oh, you who 
listen, heed me. Christmas is the children’s time. 
It is for them I plead!” 

As the vibrant voice spoke on, one could have 
heard the heart-beats. Closer the people pressed to 
the low rostrum, though the clear tones reached to 
the uttermost ends of the church. Once or twice a 
man groaned—a woman beat her breast- 

“Take heed, for it is the Father Who wills. What 
are all your arguments in face of the Almighty One, 
ye atoms of earth? You think because He stays 
His hand He cannot smite? What are the reasons 
you put forth for flinging back into His face His 
mightiest gift? Cowardice, human respect, penury, 
miserliness, irresponsibility, craven fear, indolence. 
These you would dare weigh in the balance with 
immeasurable good one human soul can bring into 
God’s world. What wonder that the very angels 
weep at man’s interpretation of living! 

“Look not to self. The self that looks to itself 
is immeasurably small. Look to the Light of the 
world. Look to Him Who balances sun and stars 
and moon. Look to Him Who sent the erring 
angels hurling down to hell. Look to Him Who 

340 



ARA COELI 


holds His hand for the very love that gave His only 
Son, pierced with nails, crowned with thorns, for the 
saving of man. In His will preserve inviolate, His 
temples of the most Holy Ghost.” He paused. A 
ray of light from an upper window centered on his 
face. 

“And yet, Joan, it looks as if the sunbeam caught 
the light from him, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, yes. I see. Look, Passy!” 

The crowd was drawing back to let a woman 
through. She seemed to have come a long way, for 
there was dust on her sandalled feet and the folds 
of her pale-blue shawl hung close. But when she 
caught sight of the boy, her face brightened and all 
trace of weariness fell away. 

“My son,” she cried, “where have you been? 
Your father and I have sought you all the way from 
the campagna to the hill.” 

Then into the boy’s face flamed a radiance so 
sparkling that those who stood close by were star¬ 
tled. He put his arm about his mother as he 
stepped down from the rostrum and looking up at 
her with ineffable sweetness, said: 

“I thought you knew, Oh, Mother mine. I had 
to come about the business of the Infinite.” 

Forgetful of the crowd, of Passiflore, Joan, Hana, 
Diana followed blindly in the direction the child and 
his mother had taken. 

The multitudes closed in as if the two had never 
been and the preaching was over for the day. Be- 

34i 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


yond the main altar was an outer door. They might 
have passed through that, but as she crossed the 
railing, a little girl caught at her skirt. She recog¬ 
nized her as a gamine who played about Castel 
Sant’ Angelo the while her mother sold flowers to 
the passers-by. 

“Signora, mia bella signora.” 

“Listen, piccola, tell me, where did he go?” 

“The Boy and His Mother?” 

“Yes.” 

The child nodded, her great eyes shining. 

“I saw where He went.” 

“By which door?” Diana eagerly asked. 

“It’s no use looking for Him outside the Church, 
Signora, for you won’t find Him. He went in there.” 
She waved a careless little hand in the direction of 
the sanctuary. 

But the space inside the altar-railing was quite 
empty, save for an old Franciscan monk who knelt 
in puzzled prayer before the tabernacle whose golden 
door had somehow been left open. 

He rose, genuflected, and closed it. 

Ara Coeli! 


342 


CHAPTER XXIII 

ATOP SANT* ANGELO 

D IANA had sent the two young girls and Hana 
off to Frascati for the day. The studio of Via 
Margutta as well as the Academy, were to be closed 
during an entire week, and Diana longed to be alone, 
more than ever after yesterday. Since then her soul 
in an unaccountable way seemed fortified against the 
iron that might have seared it only a few short 
weeks ago. She smiled to herself as she thought 
that in this Rome, city of martyrs, one form of bap¬ 
tism only, had passed her by. Strong desire to be 
baptised she had; the blood of her heart’s agony 
had swept her being, indellible mark of true repent¬ 
ance. The third, that of the cleansing waters, would 
follow. To this she had made up her mind, but 
not yet, not quite yet. 

At the Ara Coeli yesterday she had caught sight 
of a man in the crowd who reminded her of Larry. 
Whoever it was, his head had been turned in 
another direction, and she’d only seen him for an 
instant before the swaying mass of people came 
between them. But the impression had been vivid 
and had roused in her a wish that she might some 

343 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


day say she was sorry; then, only then, come “and 
offer her gift.” Unless she did, he might never 
bring himself to speak to her, not if he knew every¬ 
thing. She remembered how instinctively he loved 
the finenesses of life, things in the long run that 
counted most. Where she had fluttered on the sur¬ 
face, he had dived in deep. But he had cared too 
much for himself to be concerned whether she flut¬ 
tered over surfaces or not, and when they finally 
disagreed, had made everything easy. Poor Larry, 
she could not get him out of her mind. This would 
never do. If she were to go out she would be dis¬ 
tracted by other things, so slipping quickly into her 
things, hardly noticing where she went, she turned to 
the left on Via Gregoriana, then down Tritone 
Nuovo, past the Corso and into Via della Scroffa 
where her way lay clear. Almost unconsciously she 
crossed over Ponte Umberto and following the path 
beneath heavv-hanging branches of the trees that 
rim the Tiber’s tawny breast, reached at last Sant’ 
Angelo. 

No spot in all of Rome held greater charm 
for her than this. She had visited and revisited it 
with Joan, with Passiflore, and had led Hana 
through its enchanted corridors. 

The guards, seeing that the castel had a magic 
fascination for this fair American, withdrew their 
rigid rules and allowed her to roam at will. 

It seemed to her that if one could follow intelli¬ 
gently the history of Sant’ Angelo’s stronghold, 

344 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


from its inception as far back as a century and a 
half after the birth of our Lord, through the vicis¬ 
situdes of hundreds of years during which Popes, 
martyrs, saints, and those who were not martyrs, 
Popes or saints had witnessed triumph and defeat, 
one’s faith would be firmly, inalterably fixed. 

Some of the guides told the truth, and some such 
falsehoods about the Church and Papacy as would 
have shaken the castel’s very foundations were they 
exact. But Diana’s clear-sighted eyes, were too clever 
to be deceived and she could laugh at their stupid, 
sensational stories and refute them. 

Down past length of straggling street across the 
vastness of wide open court, rested the timeless 

masterpiece of Michael Angelo, the Dome- As 

she stood looking out from over machiolated walls 
to the colossal silhouette against the sky, came the 
thought of Peter for whom the greatest church in 
all the world was named. With that name flashed 
memory of a wonder-child she had known in the 
doubting long ago. 

The child’s mother, very martyr of an invalid, 
had been of the Church of England and had taught 
her little daughter all she knew of faith. Diana 
had been among those who ridiculed the child for 
her seriousness. “Why, Millicent, you are only 
ten years old. How can you know what you want 
to be?” 

“I know from my mother’s Bible and the history 
she taught me.” 


345 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“How could you learn what Catholics believe 
from the lessons she taught?” 

“In my mother’s Bible I read that Jesus Christ, 
Who was true God and true Man, said to His Apos¬ 
tle, Simon Bar Jona, ‘Thou art Peter and upon this 
Rock I will build My Church, and the gates of hell 
shall not prevail against it.’ The Catholic Church 
has Peter. We have not got him. We are not 
founded on the Rock. She is.” 

“Is that your whole reason, astonishing Milli- 
cent?” 

“I learned, too, that our church was established 
in the sixteenth century by King Henry the Eighth 
who wanted a divorce from his wife and wouldn’t 
submit to the Pope. I learned in my history that 
he had six wives and most of them he murdered. 
Ugh! Imagine the founder of a church being a 
man like that! Even my sweet mother couldn’t 
understand how such a thing could be. 

“The Catholic Church has as its Founder, Jesus 
Christ. In the first century He Himself, God, sec¬ 
ond Person of the Blessed Trinity, founded it. 

“You may laugh at me if you please, but I know 
the difference between divine origin, and human 
origin, and I will be of the Church that was founded 
by God.” 

In those far-away days Diana had laughed. She 
would not have laughed to-day. There were cen¬ 
turies of tragedy in what the child said. 

“Anything else?” she’d asked. 

346 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


“In our churches I get tired in ten minutes. But 
where the Real Presence makes Himself felt in the 
little house on the altar I could stay all day and all 
night.” 

Sight of the Dome brought it back. And it was 
a child who had Said these things. Always a child! 
Yet, throughout the years, lying dormant in Diana’s 
mind, were these truths that child had spoken. 

What a help, this Dome, what consolation to 
those beneath its shelter! And its shelter covers the 

world- Only such faith could have sustained 

Hana in her agony, brought about because of loy¬ 
alty to a salient principle of morality inculcated 
by the Faith of Peter. Mother Fitzgerald at the 
Trinita had said: “Patient endurance attaineth to 
all things!” 

To what had Hana’s patient endurance attained? 
Passiflore. Passiflore undesired of her father, 
Passiflore to whom the extremists would not have 
allowed life, Passiflore, both hands filled with the 
high gifts of Heaven! 

Had Faith been consoled for the loss of Mickey? 
of Jack? 

“The Communion of saints,” was the answer. 
Faith felt their presence in the night and throughout 
the drifting day. For the present she was separated 
from them only by the frail invisibility that divides 
material things from the immaterial. But there was 
no question that they would meet again. Even while 
Jack lived, he and Mickey’s mother had been more 

347 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


than compensated for the boy’s affliction. No mat¬ 
ter whether the lameness were a menace or not, they 
know him straight, perfect, eternally beautiful in 
the possession of everlasting joy. 

If Diana had only known in time! If Larry 
could have realized the truth! Poor Larry, with his 
merry laugh and dancing feet, his gaiety, his lova¬ 
bleness, his utter inconsequence, or so it had seemed 
then. The many years! She knew he had not mar¬ 
ried, but that was all she knew. Sometimes people 
spoke of having met him here or there, always 
abroad. She supposed he might have gone back to 
America, but if so, she had not heard. She won¬ 
dered, as she often did, if he had changed. The 
years had changed her. Was he still lovable? Still 
inconsequential? She had only realized his lovable¬ 
ness afterwards. But his friends felt it. Why not 
she? Evening shadows drifting across the roof 
aroused her, and the chill that fell with sundown. 
A slight wind blowing, wrapped the grey of her 
chiffon veil across her eyes. She put up her hand 
to draw it back, then stood transfixed. Larry? 
Larry! 

It was almost as if an apparation out of all the 
dream-days came to seek her. She tried to move, 
but could not, so she stood still. He walked across 
the roof and came to her, but did not even touch 
her hand. 

“I went to your house, but no one answered the 
bell. Xhen I came here. I don’t know why, for I 

348 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


had no way of knowing where you were. I saw you 
at the Ara Coeli yesterday. You were not alone 
but even if you had been I would not have dared 
speak to you. But today—I had to come. Won’t 
you—speak to me?” 

She swayed, and he might have caught her, but 
steadied herself and answered as if they had parted 
only the day before: 

“Of course. But they will give the signal in a 
few moments and we’ll have to go. There,” as a 
deep-toned bell rang out across the twilight, “if you 
don’t feel like walking back just yet I know a quiet 
place by the river, only a step or two away. Will 
you come?” 

He felt like telling her he would follow to the 
ends of the earth, but without answering went down 
the twisting stair beside her. It seemed to him as if 
in a dream he and Diana had changed places with 
the two who sang their parts on a mimic Saint’ 
Angelo roof those forgotten years ago. The lilt 
of their voices that would never die, the lights, color, 
fragrance, all gathered about them, came after 
them. It was only when they reached the secluded 
embankment and Diana turned that he fully saw 
what the years had done to her, God, through the 
years. 

“This little place is somehow Franciscan. I like 
to come here and be in retreat from the world. The 
oars that dip, and dip, are an accompaniment to 
one’s thoughts—or prayers. See, here is an old 

349 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


stone bench. Passiflore discovered it one evening 
when we stayed late at the Castel and were too tired 
even to drive home.” 

She talked on, not saying much, but her heart 
kept at its beating, swiftly with every word she 
uttered. Then, as she sat down and pulled her 
wrap about her, “I didn’t even know where you 
were.” 

“I’ve never not known where you were.” 

“You mean—you’ve known —all the time?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh!” If by putting her hand on her heart she 
might only quiet it! 

“Everywhere ?” 

“Everywhere.” 

“Why?” 

“Why not?” 

How much else did he know? Oh God! What 
else did he know? 

“Still, you were not in America.” 

“No. I was not in America.” 

“How did you know I was in Rome?” 

“I knew all about the little house on the 
Pincio.” 

“Did you come to America—after?” 

“Yes. About the time you came over here.” 

“Oh! Joan said I was narrowing my Rome by 
spending part of every day at Castel Saint’ Angelo, 
that I ought not to ‘limit my observations,’ ” she 
said irrelevantly and laughed for the first time. 

350 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 

Then, “Did you know she came with me? Is with 
me here?” 

“Yes. I knew all that.” 

A sweetness he had never expected to see, rose 
in Diana’s face as she said: 

“I couldn’t tell Joan I was waiting for you there, 
for I didn’t really know it myself.” 

“Diana, you’re flirting,” laughed Larry. 

“Oh, don’t, please. Good as it is to laugh we 
can’t laugh till we shall have talked things over and 
over. I’ve forgotten how to flirt. And you are 
really a stranger, the you that’s you, I mean. And 
besides, it isn’t done.” 

“You’re not a stranger. I’ve never let you 
be';” 

“Then you knew about—Passiflore?” 

“All about Passiflore. More than you dream I 
Know.” 

“Tell me.” 

“There was a private exhibition of especially 
good work in Paris last week. I saw the head she 
did of you. It was that brought me on. I—bought 
it,” he added with an unLarrylike touch of diffi¬ 
dence. Then, “I had to see for myself. There 
were things in the face that didn’t used to be there. 
They brought me to Rome.” 

And this was Lawrence Minton! Incredible. 
The man she had married only for her freedom, 
divorced for her freedom, and had never since had 
a moment’s freedom from her conscience. How 

351 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


little she had understood when she took him on as 
a sort of sporting proposition, married him not 
really knowing him, and then had not gone on play¬ 
ing the game. Why not? Among all her friends 
Faith was the only one who kept the rules. She 
had deliberately sought Faith out, questioned her 
and gone away unheeding, though she had known 
Faith was right. 

She raised her eyes and studied Larry for the 
first time, to see what changes time had drawn. 
He had been only a play-boy of society as society 
before the war had been, or so had Diana thought 
him. 

There had been high-lights in the brown eyes 
then. Now there were depths. The hair that had 
been dark and sleek was grey about the temples. 
This hurt somehow. She had not been there to see 
the change in the course of its coming. The lines 
about the mouth, too, were different. 

“Do you know, I can’t make it out in the least. 
You look something like Michael Desmond. How 
do you account for it?” 

“Atavism, and perhaps association. We are first 
cousins you know. And I’ve joined the candlestick" 
makers.” 

“I didn’t know. How long ago?” 

“Ages. Bobby Van Dysart did it. That’s why 
I’ve lived over here.” 

“I thought you were only amusing yourself in 
Paris.” 


352 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


“I did rather, at first. But I went into the war 
with the French.” 

“You did?” She had not known, for she would 
not ask, and no one had told her. 

“Was that what made the difference?” 

“It began the difference. I studied afterwards. 
There was a youngster, half English, half Ameri¬ 
can, Donald Kaye. We studied together with Bob 
Van Dysart in the background reporting to Michael. 
Michael got us both. Kaye is to be stationed here 
at the head of Crighton’s office. He’s a fine sort. 
I was pretty much an oldster to begin, but I couldn’t 
go back to America. Kaye’s young with the world 
before him. His earnest way of looking at life 
stirred me. I saw T things differently—after-” 

“I know. Pretty much everybody did. Those 
who didn’t, weren’t worth while.” Then the ques¬ 
tion burning on her lips: 

“Why couldn’t you go back to America?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t ask.” 

“Do you mind anything / ask? I, Diana?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, if it matters, why couldn’t you go back?” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Never more serious in my life.” 

“Well, then,” a shade of defiance in the voice, 
“because of you.” 

The color on her averted cheek might have been 
reflected from the fast-fading day. 

“You mean you—cared?” 

353 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Yes.” 

“I wonder if anything could have kept us to¬ 
gether? I was so utterly inexperienced, young even 
for my eighteen years when—it happened.” 

“Yes.” 

“Don’t be so patient. It never was like you to 
be patient when things hurt.” 

There was no bitterness in his smile as he an¬ 
swered: 

“Call it resigned, then, shall we?” 

“Oh, don’t.” A queer pang shot through her 
heart, for she knew that while she had filled the 
void of silent hours with Passiflore and lately Joan, 
Larry had had no one. Through the day, perhaps, 
his work and interest in it, but at night empty rooms, 
the silence that she dreaded. 

Little by little the time went on while they talked 
in a desultory way, now of this person, then of that 
place, skirting personalities that sent the blood 
throbbing to Larry’s temples, the chill to Diana’s 
heart. 

Neither of them noticed that the sun had dis¬ 
appeared, that dripping oars were silent the while 
the oarsmen had gone home, and he and she were 
alone together in an emptied world. Lights flick¬ 
ered from steady barges, while here and there be¬ 
side the river path shone lamps, and flickering 
torches on the angel’s bridge. The very ilexes above 
their heads were breathless. 

Diana rose and went a few steps forward, rest- 

354 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


ing her elbows on the marble balustrade that ran 
the river’s length. In the sunshine of earlier day 
the Tiber flowed drear, turbid. Now by the miracle 
of night it sparkled crystal clear. 

“Diana.” Lawrence, too, had risen and stood 
beside her. “Will you answer a question?” 

“Yes.” She looked straight into his eyes now. 

“Wasn’t it a pity?” 

“The question comes late.” 

“Even so, I do ask it. Don’t you think it was 
a pity?” 

Silence for longer than either of them realized, 
then Diana answered: 

“If I told you how it is with me I might lose 
what strength I have. You are Larry Minton, and 
I am I; entities quite as apart as the hemispheres 
in which we’ve lived. Do you want me to go on?” 

“Go on.” 

“I know now what I did not know then; that 
in spite of your worldiness, your—difference from 
what you are now, the spark was there. You cared 
for better things than I did. You knew the value 
of all that makes for beauty and worth in the world. 
Oh, Larry, I mean it was the people who did the 
things I thought were the things to do that counted 
with me, while with you it was the things them¬ 
selves, the music, the pictures, all for their own 
sakes. With me, if they appeared to be the fash¬ 
ion, popular and all that, they meant something. I 
hadn’t much of an idea above that, and the effect 

355 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

I myself might have on people. All vanity, world¬ 
liness, all of it. You were worldly, too, but in the 
right way. Your worldliness was tempered with 
better things. I was curious, vain as I was 
young, and they flattered me, those others, Hazel, 
Olga. Then, they taught me how children were 
a burden—oh, yes, you asked me to speak out. 
Families were unfashionable, responsibility. You 
know all that, and how it led to divorce. It led 
to other things of which you have never known. 
I was free, free with a weapon in my hands. 

“That’s what they did for me. 

“I wearied of everything, and went my way like 
a demented creature, seeking excitement from one 
end of the city to the other. 

“I even grew ashamed to face Hildegarde’s 
coterie. They set me as free as the courts had set 
me from you. Indeed, I was severely left to my 
own devices. I can’t see how you could possibly 
have kept track of me, then.” 

“Even then, Di.” 

“Oh, dorttl” 

She shrank from the little name as if he had 
struck her. Then asked: 

“How did you?” 

“I never asked. It came to me through differ¬ 
ent channels. People were coming and going. 
Whether in trench or forest, it came to me. I 
always knew.” 

This time the silence was tinged with a signifi- 

35 ^ 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


cance neither could mistake. Diana’s lips were 
white when she spoke again. 

“What became of Bruce Daingerfield, Larry?” 

“He died. At Verdun.” 

“How?” 

“He fought a duel and was shot.” 

“Why?” 

“I believe he had talked indiscreetly.” 

“Who killed him?” 

“The doctors said it was his heart. The wound 
was only a flesh wound. But his heart was in bad 
condition. It was that, at the end.” 

“His heart, Heaven help him, was always—bad.” 

“We’re going to forget him.” 

“There would be a great deal else to forget.” 

“Even that.” 

The risen moon’s light shone full on her face 
now, pallid and tired. She had suffered enough. 
And yet it seemed to her that her real suffering had 
only begun. Whatever hope she might have had 
of building up, of living again, had died. But Larry 
knew she had suffered enough. 

“Diana.” 

“Yes?” 

“You’ve told your story—all I shall ever ask to 
hear. And it was all the story I knew. You’ve 
never asked one word of mine.” 

“I had to tell. You are here. That’s all I 
wanted in the world. Just to see you, if only once. 
There is nothing to ask.” 


357 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Do you rriean that?” 

“Long ago I learned never to say what I do 
not mean.” 

“Do I—count in your life—at all? Is that what 
you mean?” 

“Yes. You count.” 

The moon-glow on the Dome beyond the Tiber 
touched his heart with radiance. 

“Suppose, Diana, suppose some one in every way 
worth while, some one who could make you far 
happier than I could have done, came and asked 
you to marry him, and you loved him. Would 
you?” 

“If he were in every way worth while he wouldn’t 
ask me.” 

Wondering, Larry questioned: “Why not?” 

“Because I am married.” 

So. It had all been a mistake, the hope, the 
light, the counting as she had said he counted. 

“I don’t understand you.” 

Then she smiled. The shining of her eyes was 
more than the brightness of stars to him, eyes illu¬ 
mined by tears into something deeper than tender¬ 
ness. 

“The law of man may have separated me from 
my husband, but He Who holds and breaks men’s 
laws holds me married to my—husband, Lawrence.” 

“You, too, Diana?” 

“I, too, Larry.” 

“You would never have married—after-?” 

358 



ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


“Oh, I might have done anything before I knew 
the truth. But now I know that marriage is sacred. 
Even the words ‘What God has joined together, 
let not man put asunder,’ would show us if our 
'Sense of responsibility did not. So you see, no one 
could be as you suggested in every way worth while, 
( and ask me to marry him. Isn’t it absurd on the 
face of it that a mere scribbled scrap of paper could 
have power to undo God’s sacrament?” 

“It hardly seems possible for you to mean it.” 

“I told you I had learned to mean what I say. 
It is just another case of the impotent, puny hand 
of God’s creatures—and He could wipe us out of 
existence in a moment—lifted against the great Cre¬ 
ator. Either He must look on us who break these 
basic laws as ignorant, irresponsible children, or 
as bad, presumptuous men and women, filled with 
the sins of arrogance and pride.” 

“Then you don’t believe divorce is really divorce? 
Not under any circumstances, Di?” The little name 
came easily now. 

“Oh, I know perfectly well there are certain cases 
where separation must be, call it what you will when 
it is utterly impossible for two people to exist under 
the same roof. How can they live together when 
they’ve made so terrible a mistake that to go through 
with it would drive them mad? Then, of course, 
property reasons step in which might make legal 
divorce necessary. But there is no such thing as 
re-marriage. Neither man nor woman who has been 

359 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


married in the sight of God with the sacrament of 
marriage can ever undo it or have it undone. They 
may live apart, but they are married in the sight 
of Heaven for time and eternity/’ 

“Outside the Catholic Church it is not like that.” 

“No, because they don’t know. God never holds 
responsible those who don’t know. The thing is,” 
she laughed, glad that she could, “to find out.” 

“Yes, it’s the only way.” 

She looked at him curiously. 

“How do you know so much about it all, Larry? 
JVhy do you?” 

“Oh, I had good reasons.” 

“You seem to have developed into a very won¬ 
derful person.” 

“Don’t say that, dear. Oh, don’t say that. 
We’ve all got to wake up to life’s true meaning, 
one day or another.” 

“J’m sure of it. Oh, I’ve been made to think, 
and since I came to Rome with Hana and Passi- 
flore, and Joan, all so firm in their belief, and get¬ 
ting so much out of what they believe, I’ve said 
I was going to learn. Every day I’ve slipped away 
to see my neighbour, across the piazetta from our 
house.” 

“Who?” 

“The Trinita de Monti.” 

“What have they told you about the sacrament 
of marriage?” 

“They told me that since you and I were married 

360 


ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


in our church, by our own minister, both of us bap¬ 
tised Christians, that no human power can ever undo 
that marriage.” 

“They told you that? They told you we were 
still married, you and I?” 

“Yes, Larry.” 

“God bless them for telling you!” 

There was silence for a while, then: 

“Would you, could you, be willing to give me 
another chance, Di?” 

“Oh, if you only knew how Ld give my life to 
make up for the years apart!” 

“There are several things I must tell you. What 
would you say if I told you I had become a Cath¬ 
olic?” 

“I would answ r er it is what I am going to be. I 
had made up my mind some time ago.” 

Her hand moved to him as a bird might flutter 
to its mate. Against his heart he held it while he 
spoke: 

“You said I’d changed, but you’ve got to know 
all the truth. I went through Purgatory before I 
came into the Church. I’d not been a saint, Di.” 

“I didn’t suppose you had, Larry.” 

Content to sit there with him while the river 
flowed at their feet, content to let the hours and 
days and w r eeks if need be, pass, just so that he 
was her own again, at last. 

“There was a man who looked out for us—at 
Verdun. After I fought—Bruce—and was kept 

361 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


out of the way till the doctor discovered it was his 
heart and not-” 

“I know. Go on.” 

“His name was Cabanel, the Abbe Cabanel.” 

“I heard him in New York, and saw him often. 
I believe the men must have followed him blind¬ 
folded. We did, the workers.” 

“I followed him open-eyed. I learned what a 
rotter, a quitter, I’d been.” 

“Don’t call yourself names. I was the quitter. 
I didn’t realize the first meaning of the vows we’d 
made. I had that as an excuse. But I was so great 
a fool that I don’t believe if I had realized, they 
could have held me.” 

“Poor heart! We both flung back into God’s 
face the beautiful thing He had given us, so we 
were both to blame, I most of all. You were so 
young.” 

For a few moments she said nothing, then asked: 

“What happened after Abbe Cabanel came?” 

“When Daingerfield died, Cabanel was with him. 
He got him safe, thank God. It was the eleventh 
hour, but his soul was safe.” 

“I said you’d changed. I didn’t know any man 
could be as big as that.” 

“Cabanel had given me peace. He was the only 
one who ever knew why we fought. I had received 
so much, and here was this poor beggar on the edge 
of eternity—afraid. So—well, it happened.” 

“Did you see him again?” 

362 



ATOP SANT’ ANGELO 


“He asked for me. I went. Said he’d not beg 
forgiveness and didn’t blame me. But for the sake 
of America—we two—so far away, would I take 
his hand?” 

“You did, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, yes. Everything was right with him. 
Cabanel saw to that. He had lost his fear at the 
end. Somehow peace came to him. That’s all.” 
He gently loosened her hand from his and walked 
to the balustrade, wiping cold drops of perspiration 
from his forehead. Only for Diana, only for her 
would he have lived over that hideous time. 

She sat quietly waiting and when he came back, 
asked: 

“When did you become a Catholic?” 

“He baptised me early one morning before the 
artillery shot away the greater part of the church. 
Lucky he did it then, there was nothing left of the 
Baptistry.” 

“Then you were a Catholic before the Vans 
found you in Paris?” 

“Long before.” 

“Larry, if we had had—it—long ago, as Faith 
had it, you would have been spared all the tragedy. 
Either I would have given you up—as she had cour¬ 
age to suggest—or I would have learned to realize 
what marriage meant.” 

“Who knows? It all might have been intended 
for some great good. ‘The things that seemed not 
good, yet turned to good!’ ” 

3^3 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Larry!” Does distance separate after all? Or 
time? What was he saying? 

“Perhaps the loneliness of the childless years was 
a way of leading you and me to the knowledge and 
happiness of Him, and poor lost Bruce to Heaven. 
We can’t tell. Some day we will know, not ‘through 
a glass darkly’ as now, ‘but face to face.’ ” 

“When I—come to the Dome—Larry, will you 
be the one to see me through?” 

He had not taken her hand again. It was enough 
that she stood there beside him, that the thrill of 
his heart spoke to hers, that for the moment in the 
sight of the angels there were only they two, he 
and she, alone. 

“If I do that, will you see me through?” 

“Through what, Larry?” 

“The rest of life, Diana.” 

The years that had been lost! The precious, 
precious years! 

“Oh, my love! My love!” 

»!/ 4 * 4 * 4 » 4 * 4 * 

"T* *1* -r* 'T* 

The little twinkling lights along the Tiber danced 
for joy. A breeze sprung out of Paradise to where 
they walked beneath the ilexes, while down through 
the gloried night swayed a lark, singing to enrap¬ 
tured measure and all the way to the Pician hill, 
Larry held tightly to his breast the hand that never 
while he lived was to be wrested from his tender 
keeping. 


364 


CHAPTER XXIV 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 

A STONISHING days, alive with witchery! 

Came New Year’s morning, and Hana, in 
Diana’s room, putting final touches to a simple 
toilet that itself seemed mirror of Diana’s lumi¬ 
nous happiness. 

“If I were younger, Hana, it should have been 
white. My very soul seems bathed in crystal 
waters.” 

“It will be whiter still—soon, Lady Diana.” 

“I know. Have you told the children?” 

“Not yet. They were to meet us at the Trinita. 
They think it is just for the New Year’s Mass.” 

“We won’t keep them waiting, then. I am 
ready.” 

Timidly Hana asked: 

“Will—he—come for you, dear Lady?” 

“No. He will wait in the chapel, too. I don’t 
want any one but you, till afterwards.” 

They walked across the piazzetta, silent in the 
early morning, save for the splash of water in the 
fountain basin and birds that sang their glorias. 
Up steps carpeted with a joy Diana had not dreamed 

365 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


existed this side of Heaven they went, and through 
the open door where a smiling portress expectantly 
waited. Down the long corridor that had echoed 
many years to the gentle sound of consecrated feet, 
then up the winding stair- 

Chapel of Mater Admirabilis! 

“Myriam—I baptise thee in the name of the 
Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 
Amen.” 

Mater, another Myriam, rosy-pink and golden, 
jewelled with miracles, pensive eyes resting on a 
new chapter in Diana’s book of life, bore witness 
to the spotless soul renewed to baptismal innocence, 
white as the crystal waters of which she had spoken, 
effulgent in the sight of God. 

Afterwards, at the merry breakfast in the little 
house to which Larry came for the first time, Larry 
who had “seen her through,” Passiflore emerging 
from her timidity like a shy bird, said: 

“I never understood, but every night and morn¬ 
ing I have prayed that this would happen. That 
you would be baptised, and—he—would come.” 

Diana had cried a little, laughing through her 
tears, gone to Passiflore and hugged her. 

There came another morning, eve of the Epiph¬ 
any, when all the schools reopened, and Joan fared 
forth early to be first at Via Margutta. But as she 
started out the door she saw Incubo doggedly mak¬ 
ing his way up Via Sistina, a new little American 
cabin trunk on the front seat beside the driver, and 

366 



TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


Aunt Diana, always glowing now, talking volubly 
to—some one. Who could it be? 

“Oh, Mummie! Mummie!” 

Forgotten the Via today, forgotten the portrait 
just begun, forgotten everything but the sweet some 
one who had kept her coming a surprise. She 
looked so young in the hat with the long widow’s 
veil. 

Joan welcomed her with a gladness that showed 
she’d forgotten why she longed to come away from 
everything and every one suggesting Uncle Michael 
and the lost love. 

Dawn of Epiphany! Witchery, witchery still, 
never to be let go from one’s memory. 

“Where shall it be, dear heart?” Larry had 
asked. 

“There’s only one place, for you and me, that is.” 

“The Dome, Diana?” 

“Of course, the Dome.” 

“Some quiet altar where we may be quite alone 
with the priest who marries us?” 

“The quietest spot. The one that means the 
most.” 

“Where the Fisherman sleeps, sweetheart?” 

“Where the Fisherman wakes, Larry.” 

But at the last they felt that selfishness to be put 
aside at all, must be put aside at once, and that they 
really wanted those who loved Diana dearest after 
Larry. Hana, Passiflore, Joan, and Faith who knelt 
apart, but not alone, gathered together where the 

367 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


golden flickering lights above Saint Peter—liv¬ 
ing—mark the heart and centre of the Christian 
world. 

“I, Myriam Diana, take thee, Lawrence, to have 
and to hold . . . till death do us part.” 

“I, Lawrence, take thee, Myriam Diana. . . .” 

The glory in her face! The tremor of her lips! 
The light in Larry’s eyes! 

Whispering silence, echoing rhythmic chant above 
and beyond the ninety golden lamps and more—the 
Presence- 

Then there had been the joyous rush across the 
vast Piazza where fountain spray resolved itself into 
twin bridal veils, and laughed sparkling drops like 
fairied diamonds across the golden setting of 
Diana’s hair. And the tiny trattoria whose cheer¬ 
ful proprietor was thrown into an ecstasy of excite¬ 
ment at the coming of a bridal party, and who, 
amid bows and compliments and delighted excuses 
sent his little boy poste haste around the corner 
to fetch creamy butter, fresh from the churn, for 
the wedding breakfast! 

Witching wonderful weeks! 

They did good work just then, those weeks. It 
was well Joan should have them to remember, for 
a time was coming in which it would take all Passi- 
flore’s persuasion to keep the active mind and sen¬ 
sitive heart from dwelling too much on personal 
grievance within. 

Larry and Diana had not gone too far away. 

368 



TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


They felt that the peace of the Umbrian hills held 
a great part of earth’s close approach to Paradise. 
While they lived at Assizi, Faith was left guardian 
of the little house. 

There had come a letter from Michael she had 
not dared show Joan. For about a fortnight it lay 
hidden in her desk. Fancying whatever resentment 
Joan cherished at an earlier period had softened, 
she had spoken freely of Michael’s kindness in the 
dreadful days when Jack was ill; of his tender sym¬ 
pathy in her hour of greater agony, when Jack was 
taken from her, and had been surprised, grieved 
not only to see that the girl’s attitude with regard 
to Michael remained unchanged, but that it had 
hardened her. 

When his name was mentioned, she would say 
nothing. She might hold her mother’s hand a little 
closer, might stoop to kiss the hair that suddenly 
had grown to burnished silver, but she never spoke 
of him. 

“Never at all, Passiflore?” 

“No. Not any more.” 

“Don’t you believe anything could soften her?” 

“Not yet. At first I used to try. I would say, 
‘Mr. Crighton must be lonely.’ She did not answer, 
not even to change the subject. It was as if I had 
not spoken. She would either look away, start to 
paint, to read, anything. The hurt was too deep, 
Mrs. Desmond. You see it was all her life. What 
if it is more than hurt?” 

369 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“How, dear? How could it have been more 
than hurt?” 

“If you will forgive me—shock. Oh, she is quite 
all right in every way. But the complete change 
came so suddenly, the horror when Judy attacked 
Mrs. Crighton, the fearful struggle, the death so 
unlike the only other death she had seen, Mickey’s. 
She told me, once, at first when she said she would 
never speak of it again, that it was very much worse 
than if Raphael had died, for he had never been 
allowed to be born.” 

“She thought of that? Joan!” 

“She must have had to think of it, dear Mrs. 
Crighton. It was” 

“No wonder. It is curious I should turn to you 
in this trouble, Passiflore, but you know her better 
than any of us. I have had a letter from him. Read 
it, then tell me what I ought to do. You see, my 
little girl is of today. She drives through where 
I would not have dared set foot. Even far away 
in this ancient Rome she has become modern of 
moderns. I don’t know what to do with my one 
child. I miss—her father. He would have told 
me. He could tell me, always.” 

Yet even in this predicament Faith had courage 
and could smile, for she knew Joan’s heart even 
though coping with it just at present was a prob¬ 
lem. 

Passiflore held the letter in her hand, not open¬ 
ing it. She was thinking of Joan. 

370 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


“If she had not had her work to occupy her 
thoughts she might have thrown herself away, 
rushed off into frivolous ways, but her painting has 
held her safe, and her work has been all the better 
for her troubles, and even her sorrows—for she 
has had them. Oh, dear Mrs. Desmond, a cross is 
not all bad, indeed, it is not. Joan is sensitive, 
hides what she feels, but I am sensitive, too, so I 
understand her.” A queer little smile twisted the 
calm lips as she continued: 

“They cross the street when they see me coming. 
They make horns behind my back, sometimes to my 
face. I see it all. I know, but I have a remedy.” 

“What remedy, dear lamb?” 

“The passion-flower. Always I have that. If 
the hurt comes when I am good, I see my flower, 
my own flower with the nails, the cross, the thorny 
crown all drooping for my Master, and I know 
then what He had to suffer—what humiliation! I 
see His broken body, too. While mine may be bent 
and crooked, it is whole. His was broken. I still 
have His gift of life. At least those who mock me 
have not killed me as they killed Him for me. It 
might have been much worse for me than it is. I 
might have died before I came to know Him, inti¬ 
mately I mean. It might have been much, much 
v/orse. That’s when I’m good. But when I’m bad, 
tired and bad as I often am, the passion-flower is 
emblem of what I’ve done. It holds up my pride. 
Ml Rome knows what I’ve done.” 

37 1 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“I should hope so. Not only Rome, but all the 
continent and across to America, they know.” 

“Yes. They may point their fingers at me, but it is 
at Passiflore the artist, Passiflore the sculptress, Pas- 
siflore whose name one day will astonish the world. 
Then I think how ignorant they are and how they 
would stare if they knew at whom they make the 
horns. Afterwards, when the wickedness is past, 
I go quickly to Don Raimund at San’ Andrea’s to 
confession, for it is a most monstrously bad Passi¬ 
flore who has such thoughts as this.” 

“Not bad, Passy. Just a little human like the 
rest of us. I would rather Joan consoled herself 
with pride in her work, than that she carried the 
hurt in her heart, alone. I don’t like the way she 
takes it at all, but I don’t know how to cure her.” 

“It’s a contradiction in Joan. She has gained 
confidence in herself while she has lost faith in 
others. While the experience has done wonders 
with her painting, it doesn’t seem to have helped 
the real girl.” Passy clasped her hands as she spoke, 
and the letter fell on the floor. “I forgot about 
it,” she laughed as Faith stooped and gave it to her. 
Then she took it from its envelope. 


“New York. 

“Faith Dear: 

“Your letter was charity as well as joy. It brought you 
closer to my range of vision. If you could see the empty 
house, listen with me to its silence, you might begin to un¬ 
derstand what a Roman stamp and your handwriting mean. 

372 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


Sometimes I believe I’m growing savage. All my world 
is overseas and I am left to go on and on, building one thing 
after another for other people, and for myself the vapidity 
of drear middle age. And I’m becoming waspish in doing 
it. There’s always the hope of making England at least, 
or the new studio in Paris. Our happy Benedik, Lawrence 
Minton, is to take it over when he and the Lady Diana, 
God bless her, see fit to leave their second honeymooning 
at Assizzi. I want him to stay away as long as he likes, 
steep his soul and hers in the glories that are Umbria’s. 

“If I thought there were the slightest possibility of your 
meeting me either in France or England I would throw 
everything to the winds and go over, but I know that for 
the present at least you are fixed in Italy, and I could not 
take so long a holiday, yet. This brings me to the point. 
Young Kaye is ready to take over our interests in Rome. 
I have tried him from time to time by sending him to 
Paris and he has proved himself there, as here. So he is 
to have charge in Italy. He tells me he knew you when 
he was a boy, one California season, but too long ago for 
remembrance. When he came to New York, you and Jack 
were in the West. He came the week poor Hilda died. 
He is quite a remarkable young person, full of talent and 
charm. He made his way in the war when he was not more 
than a boy, for England needed all her sons and he managed 
about his age! He has very close friends in Rome, people 
with whom he was associated then, and others. He has 
studied there and knows Via Margutta like a book, as well 
as Villa Medici. 

“Now to come to the raison d'etre of this letter. I want him 
to know Joan. Dear Faith, don’t say I have meddled 
enough. Perhaps this is my reparation. If, in my foolish 
yearning for a son I created a visionary creature to fill the 
emptiness I could have modeled him on no better prototype 
than this very Donald Kaye. If I have a regret, it is that 
I did not let well enough alone, and time take care of itself. 

373 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


It was certain to bring these two together sooner or later, 
and it had far better have been—later,—now. 

“No son of my own could have been more to me. I am 
sorry to say the Olga person, Mrs. Trent, and that bounder 
Magargle are sailing on the same ship. What they are going 
to do in Italy is a mystery, though I believe their idea is, 
a little Rome, a little Florence, a little Venice, then much 
time in Monte Carlo and a winter in Paris. The man 
appears willing to play courier-banker for the sake of some¬ 
one to go about with, who can introduce him. What an 
existence! 

“I like better to think of the little house on the Pincio, 
of you, of my Joan, the Japanese and her child. Whenever 
they come to my mind I am forced to wonder what has 
become of- 

“Do you think I had better go on, Mrs. Desmond, 
dear? It seems to be about my father.” 

Faith nodded, so she continued: 

“What has become of Matsuo? He disappeared as mys¬ 
teriously as he came. I never told you that my poor Hilda 
knew his secret. He asked to be allowed to tell it. He 
begged her forgiveness for whatever he had done to dis¬ 
please her, but she died before she could tell me anything 
about it, and when I sent for him afterwards he had dis¬ 
appeared. I sometimes think if there had not been so much 
mystery there need have been no tragedy. 

“I am constantly reading of Passiflore’s success. The 
group she sent to London was a triumph. I have something 
I want her to do for me, but will write her in person. 

“Oh, Mrs. Desmond, could there be better news 
than that in any letter?” 

Faith smiled at the happy face looking up, then 

374 



TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


Passiflore went on: “Tell her it is too important 
to send the message through any one else, even 
you.” 

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes grew big and black as 
they did when she was deeply moved. “What is 
it? What do you think it can be?” 

“Wait and see,” said Faith, evidently in on the 
secret. Then: “Finish the letter, Passy.” 

“The building of Modern Arts goes apace. When it is 
done, I will rest. Rest means just one thing, Rome, where 
you are, where Passiflore is, where Joan is, and, please 
God, our reconciliation. Pray for me, all you who are in 
the eternal city where alone one seems to touch high 
Heaven. 

“Michael.” 

Silence, a musing Passiflore, and Faith who 
watched eagerly for her answer. Then at last the 
question: “What do you think about it?” 

“I’d not tell her.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s a little bit hard to explain. The letter 
would have been all right in 1903.” 

“Why, Passy, do you mean our day is passed?” 
laughed the older woman. 

“Well,” Passiflore laughed back, “it was in an¬ 
other generation that our elders —and wisers, man¬ 
aged, or tried to manage our hearts, wasn’t it? If 
this Donald Kaye is to care, let it alone.” The 
small pale face grew tense as she looked out across 
the eternal hills. 


375 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“What work do you suppose he has for me to 
do? It sounds interesting.” 

“Anything you do is interesting, child. It is curi¬ 
ous that you, born and brought up in America, 
should have the vivid imagination of the Oriental 
so strongly developed.” 

“Ancestors, I suppose.—Mrs. Desmond?” 

“Yes, Passiflore?” 

“I never get you alone. You said I was to call 
you Aunt Faith. Did you mean it?” 

“I meant it.” 

“I don’t believe I can do the work for Mr. 
Crighton.” 

“No? He will be disappointed.” 

“He must not be. There is something I want to 
tell you. Mother and Joan know it, but up in the 
room Joan and I call our private studio, I’ve started 
something not even the Academy is to know about. 
I don’t want any one to see it. Even Joan must 
not look.” 

“How can you work together, then?” 

“We don’t work together very often. There 
are so few few holidays, but when we do she has 
promised to keep to her window and I to mine.” 

“Life work, Passiflore?” 

“Life work.” 

“All planned out?” 

“Not quite. I have the theme, but something is 
lacking. I don’t worry about that, though. It will 
take a long time.” 


376 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


“You are young to do a life work.” 

“I know. We might call it an ante-room, a sort 
of vestibule. But when we unveil it, you shall say 
whether it’s to have been life work or not. Aunt 
Faith-” 

Faith stooped and kissed the smooth forehead. 

“You knew my father? Did you?” 

Memory flashed like a depressing shadow. All 
the horrors that had overshadowed her immediate 
circle seemed to have centered about the long ago 
of Passiflore’s father, time in which he had played 
so inexplicable a part. 

“I have often seen him.” 

“He was a servant in Mrs. Crighton’s house,” 
said Passiflore, unabashed, “just as my mother was. 
I never speak of him before her, because all she 
has ever told me is that he was employed by Mr. 
Crighton, that his name is Matsuo, and that I must 
pray for him. It is the letter that makes me ask. 
I never had courage to speak about it to the Lady 
Diana. If she wanted me to know she would have 
told me. But I have thought and wondered till 
my head ached. You see, he is my father. But 
nothing ever comes of such thinking, such wonder¬ 
ing.” 

How tell the girl it was because she was afraid 
of Matsuo, Hana had fled and hidden away 
all the years? How could any one tell her that 
she, the unwelcome child, might be in danger of 
losing what life she had? Life was dear to her, 

377 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


maimed as she was, and of inestimable value to 
herself, her mother, Japan—the whole world. 
Faith had to make some answer, those questioning 
eyes demanded it. 

“I only know they separated shortly before you 
were born. What he had been in Japan, who your 
mother really was, what happened before they came 
to this country I never knew. But this I can tell 
you, you can see it for yourself: whatever your 
mother may have been in the Crighton’s house, that 
she certainly was not in Japan. The same I believe 
of your father. Whatever strange circumstance 
placed them in such a position in America no one 
can tell but your mother. She has never spoken to 
any of us of her life before.” 

“Not even to me. I don’t dare ask her, any 
more than I dared ask Lady Diana. It’s natural 
for a daughter to want to know.” The face grew 
wistful as she went on: 

“I’ve dreamed dreams of my father, back in 
Japan. He seemed sad, so sad, always seeking my 
mother and me, always crying, with his arms out¬ 
stretched. He was not at all what he appeared 
to be to you, and the others—in my dreams.” 

Quiet sandals made no sound as Hana came in. 
She had not meant to listen, but Passiflorc’s gentle 
voice carried and the last sentence was clearly audi¬ 
ble to any one in the drawing room. 

“I could not help to hear,” she said. “May I 
come out?” 


378 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


“Of course, Hana, come out and help us watch 
the sunset.” Passiflore caught her mother’s hand 
and drew her down. 

“Sit with Aunt Faith and me. Oh, she said I was 
to call her that. I love to have you with me, little 
mother. All day long I am away, and at night the 
time is nothing. We have loved the holiday. But 
holidays come to an end, don’t they?” 

“Holidays end, and”—and here she bent over 
the young head that meant all the world to her— 
“silences must sometimes end. There is much to 
be told after years of silence. May I speak now, 
Mrs. Desmond? Hana may lose courage again if 
she does not speak now. She has tried before-” 

“Would you not rather I’d go? Don’t you want 
to tell Passiflore alone?” 

“No. I want to tell you. I always wanted to 
tell you. It is hard—to talk about my—Matsuo. 
Passy was so little. I did not want to hurt her. I 
would not hurt her now, but she is old enough to 
be less hurt by truth than by the wild imagery of 
the mind. I ask your advice to this, Mrs. Des¬ 
mond.” The little right hand, more than ever like 
the carved hand of an ivory geisha rested on her 
heart as though the pain, old as it had grown, were 
a physical thing. 

H ana had changed little. The tinge of her skin 
was perhaps more transparent, shadows under the 
softly slanting eyes a little darker, and the mouth 
had taken on a sweetness of expression indescrib- 

379 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


able. But in her heart there was always an ache 
for what had been, if Matsuo had only understood. 
Curiously, the return of Lawrence Minton and the 
Lady Diana to each other had struck a chord of 
hope that Hana believed dead. But how? Where? 
God alone knew. 

“I heard what you said, my blossom,” Hana went 
on to Mrs. Desmond’s brief answer, “tell her 
everything.” “I heard what you asked. No, your 
father was not in Japan what he seemed in America 
to be, though there is much in all of this that even 
Hana does not know, cannot understand. Other 
things there are I want to tell you now. Passiflore 
has thought her mother always—like this, working 
to live, did you not, my heart?” 

The tender eyes, looking into hers, denied the 
truth of Hana’s question. “I do not study the 
face, the form, the characteristics, the expression, 
the—what shall I call it, oh, my mother? The— 
fibre —not to see when one has been born into an¬ 
other sphere of life. No. I have never thought 
what you naturally would think I did, sweet 
mother.” 

“I ask God to bless you for saying what you do, 
Passiflore. Now will I tell you the story that has 
been burning at my heart all the long years.” 

Dipping sunlight barely touching her face, she 
folded the ivory hands in the broad, flowing sleeves 
of her kimono, and began: 

“Long, very long ago in Yokohama lived a mag- 

380 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


nate, high among the nobles and of great respect¬ 
fulness. Yoshira Namuto was he called. His pal¬ 
ace was fine, here you would call it a house, so 
much finer are the houses. But there it was a palace 
and most beautiful, but finer were his gardens. 
From every quarter of Japan came those who would 
see his gardens.” A moment lost in memory she 
yielded reverence to a past that for her would always 
be a sacred thing. 

“Great potentates of the land would come, and 
great was the entertainment at Yoshira’s house. 

“He had a daughter, young, full of life, and full 
of something greater which you know as love of 
life. To her there was significance in every sign 
of nature’s own. Stars were not stars to her, they 
were the brightness of destiny, and when the moon 
rose young, it spoke of worlds beyond the world of 

Yokohama. Ah, me! Ah! me-! One night 

was a new moon born. Word came to Yoshira 
Namuto that next young moon there would jour¬ 
ney to his honourable gate another noblemen of vast 
consequence and many years, who, on a previous 
visit had taken note of the child daughter and 
would have her to be his wife. See, Mrs. Desmond, 
he was a widower with sons and daughters grown, 
and was not pleasing to the eye, nor was his per¬ 
sonality desirable. 

“That very night, one month before the visit was 
to be, did the head gardener die. Great was the 
anger of my father. Frantically did he send to 

3^1 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the government school of graduate gardeners to 
replace the man who had made the palace gardens 
blossom like an Eden.” 

“Did one come, oh, mother, did one come?” 

“One came, knowing flowers as if he himself had 
been born in the heart of a crysanthemum. 

“With her ladies was the magnate’s daughter per¬ 
mitted to walk. A spacious corner there was where 
wistaria and iris watched the lily pond like senti- 
nals. There did she spend whole hours, each long 
day, far into evening. Most circumscribed are the 
lines set about maidens in Japan, such maidens as 
are daughters of the great. This daughter was 
no exception. She was not painful to look upon. 
Some there had been to call her morning star, and 
tempt her by whatever way they could to marriage. 
They thought to gain her favour and would 
plead with Namuto, for they knew not of the thing 
that was to happen. Nor was it easy to woo one so 
closely guarded. Once the father’s promise had 
been given to the venerable man of rank no youth 
was let come near. The daughter’s will was not 
the will of her father, nor submissive as should be 
the will of a Japanese maiden in Japan. She would 
not marry with the ancient one. But how not do 
so? 

“A certain day, she walked beside the pond, and 
there did she see the newly come gardener from 
the honourable government. She noticed a strange 
thing. He had not the coarse hands of other gar- 

382 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


deners, nor the thatched and uncouth hair. His 
hair—it shone like the day. His face was young, 
and no one else did see what she saw. A week 
passed by. The ladies who walked with the daugh¬ 
ter were not even 7 minute watching, there were 
times when the young and beautiful gardener from 
the most august government would look across the 
lily pond, and smile. M 

Out of the voluminous sleeve came a tiny square 
of cambric, and with it Hana wiped her eyes. 

'‘Three weeks, two weeks, one week. Another, 
and the new moon would be made unsacred by the 
coming of the unwelcome one. Another day she 
walked beside the iris, then sat her down to em¬ 
broider. Into her embroidery she wept. Then did 
the head gardener direct his men to work upon the 
curtain of wistaria that hung above her head. One 
of them lost his balance and fell. To save him the 
head gardener ran around the pond and came close, 
and when the ladies looked to see the hurt of the 
man who fell, did he whisper in the daughter's 
ear. Almost did she faint awav, for he was 
no born gardener. Then did she smile and bow 
her head. He knew. When came the noontime, 
all but two ladies were sent away to match em¬ 
broidery silks and find patterns for the work of 
the nobleman’s daughter, and with the two only 
did she go to walk. By twilight the others had not 
returned, so intricate were the patterns to be, so 
many-colored the silks to match. And by twilight 

383 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


she was still walking, and the ladies were tired to 
death. Soon she caught sight of him. His dress 
was different, all ready for w T hat might come. She 
walked closer to the pond than ever before. There 
beyond her reach did she see floating a lily that 
she wanted for her own. ‘Get me a rod and stick,’ 
did she say. They turned, all weary to find the 
rod and stick and while they were gone she tried 
to reach the flower for herself and went too close. 
She fell in. Quick like lightning did he come. 
Higher than his knees did he walk into the water. 
The ladies were still at a little distance. ‘Heart 
of my heart, listen. Tonight, when the starlight 
touches the wistaria, can you come?’ ” 

“Oh, what, my mother, what did she answer?” 

“She did not even know his name. ‘Tonight will 
I come—anywhere,’ ” said Hana simply, then con¬ 
tinued her story: 

“The ladies were shocked to find her all wet. 
They took her home and wrapped her in soft cloths. 
She made complaining of her head and wished but 
to be left alone to sleep her fright away. Her hon¬ 
ourable father would send for a physician, but of 
this she would not hear. ‘I want but to be let alone 
and sleep, my father,’ did she say. ‘Tomorrow" 
will I sleep quite late. When they ring my little 
bell and they come with my tea, then will I tell if 
still the need be for the illustrious physician.’ He 
was content and thought her decision wise. And 
then, when all Japan lay fast asleep, in dark kimono 

384 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


cloak did she slip out to the shadow. Beside the 
iris pool he waited who was called gardener and 
wrapped her in still darker clo-th and fled with her 
to -where there lay a ship that was to sail at dawn. 
Oh, my Passiflore, my blossom, can you forgive ? n 

“What is to forgive, my mother? It is to you 
to forgive the brokenness of the passion flower.” 

“I knew so little, baby of my heart, so little. He 
somehow changed before that new-born moon grew 
older. At the first he was all love. But in my 
heart I knew he w r as afraid of something. And 
I learned that the fear was, the news would reach 
Japan he had married me. So he kept me hidden, 
and made me put away even the few beautiful 
clothes I had brought with me, the clothes of a 
great man’s daughter. And for some reason I do 
not know even to this day, there was to be no child. 
And you were coming. And I dared not tell him. 
And I grew to be afraid, too, I had never been 
afraid of anything but marriage with the ancient 
one. I grew to be afraid of my husband, Matsuo. 
When he went to work for Mr. Crighton, that, 
too, something I do not understand—it appears 
he knew before w r e left Japan that he was to come 
to America and go to work for Mr. Crighton—I 
was afraid to be left alone, so I worked, too. I 
pretended to want to work, but what I wanted was 
to be near him whom I feared. It was my one link 
with Japan. I was so alone. My hands grew 
rough- I loved your father more than I feared 

385 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

him. Then came the day that wrecked Hana’s 
life.” 

Faith put out a hand and rested it for a moment 
on Hana’s shoulder. She knew only too well the 
day to which she referred. 

“I so often wondered where you went, what you 
did.” 

“It was strange what happened after. Matsuo 
never felt, as I had felt the realness of the priest’s 
religion that had found us on that ship.” 

“Had there been a priest on the ship?” 

“In a brown habit there was a priest. About 
his waist there w r as a cord. They called him a 
Franciscan friar. He had been in Japan where 
the mission was. He saw I was young and Matsuo, 
too. He told us what he could in so short time 
and made the marriage on the ship. He gave me 
a book in Japanese, with all about the Faith. It 
comforted my heart, and he gave me, too, a Bible, 
that I wore out with reading. Not so Matsuo. 
When we got to shore he gave it all up and for¬ 
ever. He would not obey the Church. His fear 
frightened me. Oh, that night! 

“Through one street then another did I walk 
despairing. Close beside the East River did I walk. 
I carried you next to my heart, poor blossom, but 
no one knew. Matsuo had grown violent, inflamed 
by words he heard that day I begged him not to 
hear Arachne. He could have killed poor Hana. 
I believe he could. There was a bridge beside East 

386 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


River and a big place filled with coal. Blind did 
I run to it for fear thought of Church and duty 
would hold me back. I wanted to die. I think I 
must have had a crazy forgetfulness of What 
lies beyond! The river of sadness was black and 
murky. Bits of refuse did float on the sad bosom 
of the river. I stood looking, trying to make my 
mind forget. Some one touched me.- I shrunk away. 
A voice said—in Japanese: ‘You are sorrowful, 
poor thing. Come with us and let us comfort and 
take care of you.’ ” 

“Was it an angel, mother mine?” 

“God only knew. I was sick at heart and did 
not care. There were two of them. I did not even 
look into their faces. A grey dress did they wear, 
and over the grey dress a grey cloak, and on their 
breast the sign of the cross, all ivory and white. 
They led me on and she who spoke my tongue did 
hold my poor hand all the way. The iron trains 
above our heads made thunder sounds, and that is 
all I remember of that sorrowful walk. 

“We reached a door and went up poor broken 
steps into a shabby house. But inside was peace 
and a little chapel. ‘I will kneel beside you,’ said 
the one who spoke my tongue. ‘It is Benediction. 
After, we will talk.’ I saw them floating in like 
some sweet dream of the home of blessed souls. 
They were all robed in white from head to foot. I 
learned about that afterwards. White is the color 
of the Blessed Sacrament. But on the street they 

387 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


wear grey dresses, and black veils. Black is for 
penance. Saint Francis of Assizi did give the black 
veil to the first Franciscian women, Saint Clare, 
and her sister Agnes. The grey is for incense, 
their life to rise like a prayer as incense rises. The 
grey and black they wear on the street and when 
they go outside their convent, because the white 
does soil too soon. Franciscan Missionaries of 
Mary, they call them, but they are really angels.” 

“Oh, mother mine, my heart is suffocating. Tell 
me more.” Passiflore had gotten up and knelt 
before her mother, clasping her close. 

“Many homes have they in Japan, and wherever 
there are souls and bodies to be helped and cared 
for.” 

“I know them well,” Faith said. “The five tum¬ 
ble-down little houses in New York are being re¬ 
placed by a fine new convent and settlement. The 
Mother house is here in Rome you know, on Via 
Juisti” 

“I did not know,” said Hana, “but she who 
spoke my tongue had been in Kobe as well as Yoko¬ 
hama, and she did know my father. She saved my 
life and my mind. It was in that little house the 
Lady Diana found Passiflore and me.” 

“God showed her the way.” 

“God always shows the way,” echoed Passiflore, 
with shining eyes. Faith noticed that they’d become 
strangely brilliant as if through her mother’s story 
some inspiration had reached her. They sat silent 

388 


TIME TELLS ITS STORY 


for a while, each musing in her own way. At last 
Passiflore asked: 

“Does it hurt to think of my father?” 

“Hana may be a little mad, my Passy, for Matsuo 
hurt me with a deadly hurt. Yet—there’s never- 
ending pain for loving him. And pain that he does 
not know of you and of what you do for the whole 
world.” 

“For God Who gave me life,” corrected Passy, 
“for the work I want to do for Him as long as I 
shall live. Mother mine, who was my father, 
really?” 

“Much mystery there was about him. Who he 
was, what he was, I cannot tell you. Hana does 
not know. His mind was a deep well. Everything 
went into it. And to himself did he hold what 
he knew. If he had not held it so close some one 
might have shown him he did not know what he 
did acquire, with correctness. While we worked 
at the house of Mr. Crighton, Matsuo would dis¬ 
appear at night. Always was I to keep the secret 
of his going. Always was I not to be surprised that 
he w r ould go. Sometimes I think Hana was but a 
cloak for whatever real things he did. Sometimes 
I think Hana held him back from what he would 
have done. Had I taken my place openly as an 
honourable wife, then should I have known. But 
even on the ship when the priest did the marriage 
ceremony, Matsuo told me, ‘silence.’ I had to 
change my name. Tzuru was my name. Hana was 

389 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


my mother. She died when I was born. So I did 
take what was my mother’s. I know, as we all do, 
Matsuo stayed in America long, trying to find me. 
But it was he taught me how to hide. Then he 
went away. Where, I do not know.” 

“How was he so good a gardener? Was he 
always a gardener?” 

“What he really was, that I did not know. He 
was no gardener. But he loved doing well what 
it came to him to do. And he did learn more 
quickly than any one in all this world. He was an 
artist. I think from him it is you get the artist’s 
soul. But it is Hana, Tzuru, who has given Passi- 
flore the Christian spirit.” 

“She has given her child this night a gift greater 
than she will ever realize. Light, mother mine, 
light !” 


39 ° 


CHAPTER XXV 


A COMING 

F OR the third time the model had failed to 
appear. As far as Joan was concerned it 
did not matter. The other members of the class 
might follow line for line, shade for shade, color 
for color, but not she. Her imagination, faring 
far, found inspiration in the liberty of her own 
free spirit. Romilda da Paolo had tried month 
after month, year after year, to infuse just such 
independence into the students, and had failed. 
Joan’s untrammeled soul itself was to be found in 
her painting. The very freedom of it had begun 
to frighten her mother. Where was Joan drifting? 
Why? Then came a letter from Diana. 

Paris, 19 — 

* * * Never mind her, Faith. It is not so much Joan 
as the times. Here in Paris we see far more of it than I 
saw in Rome. Larry says it’s because in France, youth has 
had less freedom in the past than youth of other countries. 
I don’t say it’s all good. Some of it is frightfully bad. 
But I’m trying to get their vision, see through their eyes, 
and realize that good or bad, they are going ahead, accom¬ 
plishing, trying out what you and I would never have 

391 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


dared try at all. Just now it’s a melting pot but they 
don’t know it. They’d be horrified if we suggested that 
their cubism is not a fait accompli . Joan’s originality is 
rather the originality of some of the old masters touched 
by modern spirit. Give her rein—but stand by. Her love 
of you will do the rest. Nowadays the trouble is that 
parents don’t stand by. Either they criticize to the point 
of madness or ignore altogether. To uphold your own 
when one is not quite certain of the artistic orthodoxy of 
one’s own is the hardest part. But you will always take 
the unselfish way. Don’t think I say one thing and do 
another, Faith. Each day at the Madeleine I pray that, 
should it please the Bon Dieu to send Larry and me a child 
of our own, he or she may want to do the things we think 
best. 

We ourselves shall need light—and entire forgetfulness 
of self. The generation before ours, overexacting, our 
own too lax, both have been forms of selfishness. I would 
ask for the future, a greater breadth of vision and an under¬ 
standing less trammeled than that of the past generation, 
with reverence and respect that the young of today have 
not known. 

Poor leader of the blind, what have I done to deserve 
either from the future! But with all my soul I’m trying 
now so that if ever the time should come, they will feel 
as I pray they may. 

I want you to know, too, that Larry and I are forgetting 
the lost years in the glory of these. If I sometimes am 
tempted to anathematize the criminal doctrine that stole 
our happiness away so long, Larry bids me think again, 
and thinking, see that God may have permitted it in us 
that in our hurt many another poor fly may keep clear of 
the spider’s web. 

Love aplenty to you all, and my heart to Passiflore, 

Diana. 


392 


A COMING 

In the studio of Via Margutta, Joan was ques¬ 
tioning destiny. 

“What’s the use of anything?” 

“Everything.” 

“How?” 

“Unwavering faith, hope, love. They spell ideal¬ 
ism and reality, dreams and truth; they are life, 
Joan.” 

“What have they done for you, Romilda? You 
work day in, day out, till you are ready to drop. 
You try to put vision into these dull heads that 
can’t see beyond a model or outside these four 
walls. Where does it get you?” 

“Say rather it gets me a living. And an inde¬ 
pendent living, Joan.” 

“Is a living worth it?” 

“Mine is—to me.” 

Joan painted on in silence and wondered just 
what Romilda meant. She stayed at the studio only 
because of Romilda. For some unexplainable 
reason Signorina da Palo refused to come to 
the house. Graziella told a strange story of 
romance, and that Romilda would not enter any 
house other than her own, to which she invited 
no one. It appeared she lived somewhere about 
Via Quatro Fontana. Joan knew nothing more. 
Even Faith had begged her to come for Joan’s 
sake. The reply was invariably the same: 

“Thank you very much, but it is not possible.” 
They had to be content with this. The mystery 

393 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


appealed to the romantic girl, but besides that, she 
learned certain touches from Romilda that not even 
Tacconata could have taught her. 

After a while, Joan looked up from her canvas 
and said: 

“All Italian girls consider themselves old maids 
if they are not married at twenty. Oh, I don’t mean 
girls like you. You have made a career. But what 
has life brought me? A certain amount of happi¬ 
ness, yes. That’s because I was born joyful. Even 
my poor little romance couldn’t crush all the joy 
out of me.” 

“You’ve achieved, Joan.” 

“Perhaps, but I would give it all to make my 
dream reality. What is in store for me? Just 

this-” Her brush snapped through a branch 

and bent a tree to the wind. 

There was bitterness in Romilda’s tone as she 
asked: 

“Like me?” 

“You have had reality, not emptiness.” 

“God knows whether I have or not!” 

The younger girl looked up surprised at the in¬ 
tenseness of the other’s voice. If the stories cur¬ 
rent about her in Rome were true, she had that to 
take hold of and remember. 

“I was taught to look too high, higher than I 

ever could have reached. I might just as well give 

»» 

up. 

“You’re not to be a little prig, Joan. Be satis- 

394 



A COMING 


fied with less. Look to the best, of course, but 
not to the impossible. It’s surprising to find any 
one with a high standard today. Indeed, when love 
comes, one generally marries for the love itself if 
one be a woman.” 

“Would you marry for that? Suppose he wasn’t 
everything you’d want him to be?” 

A curious expression came into- the eyes that 
looked down on her. 

“I’m afraid I might.” 

“But how is any man going to find you out? 
You are unapproachable.” 

“Am I? Perhaps I am not destined for the life 
most women lead. Perhaps I’ve had my hour—and 
lost it.” 

“Well, I seem to have lost mine without ever 
having had it, but I’ve come to this conclusion; 
to see and share life at all and perhaps marry I 
might just as well strike out for myself. I’ve had 
enough of other people leading me. Mother keeps 
me too secluded. I have no chance with her at all. 
I realize now that I don’t know the first thing about 
love, real love that sympathises and sacrifices. I 
thought I did, but now I know that Uncle Michael 
neatly prevented it.” Another ruthless dash of the 
brush in which she lifted a wood-nymph to a very 
ecstasy of motion. Romilda laughed at Joan’s skill 
and took the brush out of her hand. 

“Now you must listen to me for a bit. What is 
life?” 


395 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Tell, oh, Mentor, for I don’t want to learn 
anything about anything.” 

“I believe it means doing the thing at hand to 
the best of one’s ability, living each moment as it 
comes.” 

“One can’t sit and wait for moments.” 

“Oh, dear heart, one does not sit long. They 
come trooping, full of happiness and sorrow, joy 
and disappointment, crowns and crosses.” 

“Why the crosses?” 

“To keep us human. It’s a great chance to fol¬ 
low—One.” 

“I’ve had mine. Death is one.” 

“There are far heavier crosses than that.” 

“I’ve had disillusionment. I’d call that one.” 

“Oh, my darling, put aside the- things of a child. 
Begin to live, real life. Then come and tell me 
what it has meant to you.” 

“Perhaps real life will turn out only like Santa 
Claus and fairies.” 

“Ah! but you believed in fairies and Santa Claus. 
They made you happy while you were little and had 
certain substance in feeding your imagination with 
beautiful things that live even yet. But now you 
must take another step.” 

“I believe in ghosts.” 

“So do I,” Romilda laughed. But tell me just 
why you cared for them all.” 

“My beloved Daddy and Mummie had such fun 
filling my life with every blessed thing that could 

396 


A COMING 

amuse or Interest me that it was several kinds of 
happiness.” 

“What did it do to you?” 

“It made my world enchanted—look at my can¬ 
vas—if they’d not filled my head with visions could 
I have seen this?” 

“Of course not. The imagination did not die, 
did it?” 

“No, no. It lives and helps me through.” 

“Oh, Joan, Joan, what have you to complain of, 
you who have been gifted of the gods?” 

Joan whirled around, facing Romilda. 

“Just what do you mean? What are you telling 
me ?” 

“I’m trying to show you that you’ve been blind 
and selfish and hurtful. Don’t frown and draw 
away like that, my blessed sensitive plant. There’s 
no one else to tell you the truth, so Romilda is going 
to. I can see the heart of this man you call Uncle 
Michael, his great artist-soul, his master-mind lead¬ 
ing you through idealism to the realities of deep 
beauty. You were too young then to understand, 
but I who never knew him, never even saw him, 
can show you a little of his worth. 

“Hands full of gifts and no son to give them to, 
life full of talent that must die with his last breath, 
hours and hours alone when he need not have been 
alone, so what wonder he created out of his imagi¬ 
nation the child he should have had, just as you 
imagined Santa Claus and fairies? When you, a 

397 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


lonely little girl came to his lonelier house he let 
you play his game. He shared his secret as he 
shared many other things with you. And he saw 
you enjoyed it, loved it, so he played it harder and 
harder. He almost fooled himself, almost. It 
was a beautiful bubble while it lasted, wasn’t it? 
But it broke, and you wouldn’t play the game any 
longer. You were angry because it was a bubble, 
not remembering its glorious colours, nor the pa¬ 
tience that had made it. He was trying to please 
you and you hurt him.” 

“He hadn’t the right to play children’s games. 
He was a grown man. He knew he was wrong.” 

“Did he? I think not. Only when you showed 
him. I fancy he must be one of those men blessed 
with eternal boyishness and they are the most lov¬ 
able of all. He has given you a tremendous scope, 
Joan, in fostering that creative faculty of yours. 
He has helped lift your work far above that of an 
artist who ‘paints what he sees.’ ” 

“You’re good to care enough to bother about 
telling me. Perhaps some day I may feel as you 
want me to, but till something proves the contrary, 
I’ll hardly believe it. Sorry, but it can’t be helped.” 

Then Romilda saw in the girl’s face the very ex¬ 
pression that had frightened Faith into writing as 
she had to Diana; rebellion. Joan was in earnest 
when she asked what was the use of anything. 

As to her work, the maestro smiled on it. That 
was all that seemed left for him to do. Her portrait 

398 


A COMING 


of Passiflore had travelled from Rome to Paris, 
from Paris to London where for the present it hung 
in the same gallery with Passiflore’s symbolic 
“Cross.” 

She and Passiflore worked as much in their own 
studio at the top of the house on the hill as at the 
Academy and Via Margutta, but really Joan stayed 
on to be near Romilda. 

They sometimes walked as far as the Trinita 
together, but not beyond. To-night Joan waited till 
the class had covered their canvases, then walked 
with the older woman up the road to Villa 
Medici, where they stopped to watch the sunset. 
Joan never wearied of this enchanted spot. Obliv¬ 
ious now to all else, she stood looking out at the 
play of light across Saint Peter’s dome, and listening 
to the splashing fountain, somehow balm to her un¬ 
easy spirit. There were footsteps ringing quickly 
from the direction of the Villa and an eager cry— 
“Donald!” 

Joan had never heard that tone before. Then 
Romilda’s earnest questioning: 

“When? Where? How? Why?” and a laugh 
with every question. 

“Yesterday. The Minerva. Train from Paris 
after crossing on the Majestic. A candlestick 
shop!” 

“To stop? Forever?” 

“If I make good.” 

“It’s all of four years.” 

399 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“All of four years. Glad to see me?” 

“So glad!” 

Joan had walked off a short distance and stood 
facing the parapet. Then Donald saw her. 

“Why, isn’t that Miss Desmond? It’s the girl 
of the parrot! I knew it must be. Is she with you?” 

“Yes, we work together. Come.” 

“Don’t you remember,” he asked as he held out 
his hand—“years ago—for a moment—on the steps 
—you stood there with Judy? I’d just come to 
New York,” he explained as if all the years that had 
ever been could wipe out a single detail of that 
detested time. Did she remember? 'There had been 
the tragic loss of faith in Michael, the hideousness 
of Hildegarde’s passing, all the things she wanted to 
forget. And this man was curiously an image of 
Raphael, the Raphael of her dreams. 

“I remember. How do you do.” Primly she held 
out her hand. Primly she dropped it. There was 
no word of the Michael who meant so much to him, 
who had been so much to her. And the pity of it 
was that Donald knew why. And she was certain 
Michael had told him. 

“Give her my letter at once,” he had said, “I 
don’t know what effect it may have, but at any rate 
it will bring you together. I don’t want her to meet 
you through the people you are crossing with. Oh, 
yes, she knows them, has always known them. But 
she is very different. So are you.” 

So he was and the difference had endeared him 

400 



A COMING 

to Michael. Donald knew his world, none better. 
But the unworldliness of his nature was stronger 
than his worldly wisdom and the two made up the 
man. Joan blushed rosy red at sight of Michael’s 
handwriting. 

“Shall I read it now?” she asked, as he gave it to 
her. 

“Why not? It’s short. I saw him write it.” 

Oh, Michael, Michael, where was your guardian 
angel when you wrote that harmless letter? 

My Joan: 

Donald Kaye sails tomorrow and goes at once to Rome. 
After you, he comes closer to my heart than anyone. I 
want you to be friends. It’s my atonement. 

Uncle Michael. 

A smile Romilda hated to see, touched Joan’s 
lips, but the girl’s eyes were not smiling. She folded 
the note once, then tore it into little bits and dropped 
it over the wall. She stopped to wach them drift 
to the winding road below, then turned: 

“It was very good of you to give it to me at once. 
We must be friends, not only because of—this let¬ 
ter—but because you are a friend of the Signorina 
da Paolo’s.” 

Was it the changing light or did she see a flash of 
inquiry in his eyes when she said Romilda’s name? 
Why did Romilda suddenly look away? 

Joan remembered it afterwards. Then she went 
on: 

401 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“We will meet often, I’m sure. You’ll be at Via 
Margutta sometimes?” 

“Part of my work will take me there. Then, I’ve 
got to see old Tacconata,” he laughed. 

“Yes. And you must come to see my mother.” 

Late that night, long after the household had gone 
to bed, Passiflore thought she heard someone sob¬ 
bing. Taking a lighted taper she followed the 
sound to Joan’s room. 

“It’s Passy. I was afriad to knock. I might 
have waked the others. What is it, my Joan?” 

Joan, buried in the pillows, tried to stifle the sobs 
that tore her breast. Passiflore climbed up, took 
a handkerchief out of the sleeve of her trailing 
kimono and leaning as far over as she could, tried 
to stem the tide of tears. 

“Passy! It hurts.” 

“What hurts, precious one? Are you ill?” 

“Oh, Passy, Passy, it’s a dreadful thing to stop 
being a little girl all at once and say goodbye to your 
youth.” 

“It may be that,” said Passiflore, sitting bolt up¬ 
right now, “it may be. But I’ve never been a little 
girl. I’ve always been grown up. And I’ve known 
sorrow, Joan, more than you will ever know. So I 
lean comfort you as no one else could.” 

Then Joan sat up and the long black braids fell 
about her and the tears stopped falling. 

“I’m glad you came. I’ve got to tell someone. I 

402 


A COMING 


grew up to-day, Passy. I see what a silly I’ve been, 
what a child till this very day. You know I grew 
up hurt. Donald came to-day straight out of the 
time of my disillusionment, Donald—whom I might 
have grown to like- 

“But he brought a letter from—you know—Uncle 
Michael, and he said that this was his atonement. 
His atonement! How can a note of introduction 
atone for my senseless vision of years? I tore it 
up.” 

“Oh, Joan, not before him?’’ 

“I tore it up before him—politely. And I gra¬ 
ciously invited him to come and see Mummie. But 
all the time I was thinking and making up my mind. 
Those other girls at the Via, Grazialla and her hope* 
less love for the maestro, Ginelda and a girl named 
Rose Darst from Boston and several others and 
girls of old Roman families that we know’—I am not 
like them.” 

“No. You are much sweeter than any of them.” 

“Well. I’m going to be like them. They go to 
tea at the Russie with beautiful young officers. / 
will go to tea at the Russie with beautiful young 
officers. They trail through the gardens on festa 
days with men I’ve met and Mummie won’t let me 
dance with. Well, I can trail through gardens too, 
and dance better than the Roman girls. Mother 
will have to let me. They catch happiness while 
they are young. Why not I-?” 

“Joan, you’re all wrong. We have our blessed 

403 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


work. It’s everything to us, everything. Why, 
don’t you know they are looking for the very thing 
we’ve got? Happiness. And they can’t find it their 
way. God has put the destiny they try to find into 
your two hands and mine. His Will! They are 
shallow who seek to find the end of the rainbow 
where they chase butterflies. Look up, Joan, and 
see the truth God Himself shows you and me.” 

“I’ve thought all that out, too, but it’s my human 
self that’s gone rebellious. I’m tired to death of 
being an artist and not just a girl. To-day Graz- 
iella said her youth was gone. She’s twenty. I will 
be twenty in a few weeks.” 

“And yet, she does the things you have not done 
but want to do?” 

“I know. But there’s Tacconata. She really 
likes him. Now I’m going to tell you something, 
Passy. I’m going to win this Donald Kaye, though 
I know I shall hate him. Then when he asks me to 
marry him I shall refuse him. That’s what I think 
of—Uncle Michael’s—atonement.” 

“You will hurt yourself more than you are hurt 
now, Joan.” 

“I have reached the depths. Nothing can hurt 
me more.” 

“And then, dear—after you have refused him, and 
bruised him and wounded your Uncle Michael— 
what then?” 

“I shall find happiness. Those old and rather 
ugly friends of Aunt Hildegarde’s, Mrs. Clavering 

404 


A COMING 


and Mrs. Trent are always laughing, even if they 
are ugly and old. They’ll show me about. I know.” 
The lovely head with its long black braids rose 
defiantly. 

“Joan—poor heart, that's the devil,” said Passi- 
flore, 


405 


CHAPTER XXVI 


AN ENCOUNTER 

C URIOUS fatality! Singular transformation! 

Donald Kaye in Tacconata’s place, the maes¬ 
tro mysteriously absent from Rome and Romilda da 
Paolo’s face become inscrutable. 

As far as Joan was concerned the moments were 
either a flicker of time, or an eternity. Passionately 
she shrank from Donald’s approach. Passionately 
she told herself she hated him. Did he linger at her 
canvas longer than at Graziella’s, her indifference 
to his criticism was so marked that he was forced 
to go on to the next. Were he to remain an instant 
longer at some other easel than her own, Joan 
would be in agony till he went ahead. Persuading 
herself she despised him, she was acutely conscious 
of his every motion, his very turn of the head, the 
glance of his eyes, the tone of his voice. And be¬ 
cause she held this deadly hatred of him in her heart, 
the whole world stood still when class was over and 
the palette and brushes put aside for the night. 
Still, alert, lonely, vibrating, would Joan’s very 
being alternate, till morning dawned and Via Mar- 
gutta awoke. 

406 


AN ENCOUNTER 


Since Kaye had taken possession of the studio, 
she and Romilda rarely walked together up the 
Pincio. Most of the time Joan made the stretch of 
hill alone. Donald waited for Romilda, carried 
her belongings and talked to her the whole long 
way, when he was not listening. Romilda ap¬ 
peared to chatter away as she never did to any¬ 
one else. It was like the outpouring of a stream 
that had been for centuries choked into silence. 
Oh, Joan knew, for she had seen. Why was it? 
Why? 

Sometimes she would slip ahead to avoid being 
witness of their interest, sometimes she would drop 
back. Then, again, she would select the longer 
road past the guarding sphinxes at the gates, into 
Piazza del Popolo and up the long track of Via 
Babuino to the Piazza di Spagna and its wide stair¬ 
way to the Trinita. 

The thing she called her hatred of him grew 
stronger than human endurance. Romilda had car¬ 
ried with her to the studio an armful of golden 
ginestra and a spray of it had found its way to the 
old tweed coat. Before the hour of closing, Joan 
rose, covered her canvas, made no excuse for leav¬ 
ing and started out by way of the slope behind 
the Russie. 

“What’s your hurry, Joan?” 

It was Graziella’s voice, the least welcome on 
earth in her present mood. 

“Wait! I’ve got a piece of news for you.” 

407 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Joan waited till the other, heavier, shorter of 
breath, could join her. “How did you get away?” 

“I just came tumbling after you. Signor Kaye 
only laughed.” 

Silence. With no visible sign of interest in her 
face, she listened for Graziella’s news. 

“Think of it! To-morrow Tacconata comes 
back!” 

Gardens, twin churches of Santa Maria Miracoli 
and Santa Maria Monte Santo, the whole of Piazza 
del Popolo seemed to swirl, indiscriminate mass 
before Joan’s eyes. 

“Well, what then?” 

“Something’s happened where he lives. At Porto 
Fino. Somebody died. Perhaps the old duke. But 
he’s coming back. He! Tacconata! Magnifico!” 

“How do you know all this?” 

“I heard Signorina da Poalo and the Kaye speak¬ 
ing of it and listened. The Kaye said, ‘It was about 
time. It’s growing unbearable.’ And the Signorina 
answered, ‘I know, Donald.’ That was how she 
said it, Donald, as if they had been promessi—‘I 
know, Donald, but I would have seen you through, 
you know that.’ ” 

Joan walked steadily on, lips set, eyes ominously 
fixed, gazing straight ahead at the turmoil. When 
she spoke her voice was oddly metallic. 

“And then?” 

“ ‘ No wonder they say you understand. You are 
a very miracle of understanding,’ he said. Her 

408 


AN ENCOUNTER 


answer was, ‘Well, what is there to think? Doesn’t 
love make every woman understand everything?’ 
Now, who do you suppose she loves to make her 
speak like that?” 

“Why, the Kaye, as you call him, I suppose. 
Otherwise why mention anything so irrelevant as 
love?” 

“Oh, gran’ Dio, grant it may be so. Once the 
Signorina da Paolo turns her eyes definitely to 
another my Tacconata may give up the chase. Do 
you think so?” 

“Likely. The rebound.” 

Coming around the corner from the Corso at 
that moment, apparently heading for Hotel Russie, 
three figures flamboyant in colorings borrowed from 
the far East, caught the eyes of the two girls who 
by this time had reached the guardian sphinxes. 

“Aie, Americans! The women have captured 
the colors of a bizarre Persia,” Graziella exclaimed. 

“I know them.” Joan’s voice was impenetrable. 
“I will speak to them. They are—friends. Addio 
till to-morrow.” 

Her chance had come. And taken in conjunc¬ 
tion with the information Graziella had but this 
moment imparted, it would appear as if the final 
diagnosis of Passiflore the night before had been 
painfully correct. Well, the chance was bound to 
come sooner or later. If it had not done so of it¬ 
self, Joan would have created it tant pis . Why be¬ 
come perturbed over anyone she distinctly hated? 

409 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


He was to go out of her life to-morrow. Well, then, 
here would be more life. She was thoroughly weary 
of the one she had lived. 

She caught up with the bizarre-looking women 
as they entered the hotel. 

“How do you do, Mrs. Trent.” 

Neither Hazel Trent’s eyes nor Olga’s, were too 
heavy with kohl to recognize from beneath its dark¬ 
ening weight, Faith Desmond’s child, grown up. 
And never more keenly had Joan appreciated the 
visible contrast between them and her newly awak¬ 
ened self. The flame of her frock against the fawn- 
grey of old Rome, flame-flowers of the wreath that 
bound her drooping hat, deep blue eyes whose only 
shadows were cast by the becoming brim, she felt, 
Joan-like without vanity or egotism, there was not 
one in all Rome to be compared to her. 

“La child! Who would have believed it? What 
have you done to yourself? We expected to find 
you something of a mouse and you turn out a bird 
of Paradise!” 

Joan was able to laugh, then answered: 

“What nonsense. Why should I do anything to 
myself? Perhaps it’s the pleasure of seeing a little 
bit of old New York in Rome after all the years. 
And you wouldn’t have spoken if I hadn’t made my¬ 
self known, would you?” 

Was this the child who had stared owl-eyed at 
Hildegarde’s table, who had considered birds and 
dogs and cats as intelligent as human beings and 

410 


AN ENCOUNTER 


had ended by falling in love with a myth? Impos¬ 
sible. She stood, a vision of rare loveliness, hold¬ 
ing out a cool, slim hand to each in turn. Then she 
raised inquiring eyes, for Tuck Magargle stood 
staring as a frog that had caught the glint of par¬ 
ticularly delectable irridescence. 

“Jove ! This is never the girl of the parti-colored 
parrot?” 

She concealed a shudder at sight of the cushioned 
hand stretched out, the fatuous smile. 

“The little girl in love with the fable! Ha! 
Well over that, Miss Desmond, any one can see! 
Ha!” 

Still playing the game, Joan answered cheerfully: 

“One doesn’t live in a human world, a Romanly 
human world and play with shadows, does one?” 

“Who could have believed it? What a joke on 
Hilda!” Olga shrieked to Hazel. 

“Don’t. You make me creep, but the girl’s 
lovely.” She turned to Joan. 

“We’ll have to show you off. When can you dine 
with us?” 

“When you like.” 

“What about Caesari’s to-morrow night? We’ll 
go for the sunset and stay for moonrise. Donald 
Kaye will be glad of a holiday from his quixotic 
job and Berinari will make a sixth. Know Ber- 
mari r 

Joan, recognizing the name as one of the chief 
reasons for her mother’s refusal to allow her to ac- 

411 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


cept invitations to the Russie tea-dances, answered 
nevertheless: 

“Everyone knows Count Berinari. But why poor 
Kaye?” 

“Why not?” Up went Mrs. Clavering’s closely 
clipped eyebrows. 

“He sees me day in, day out, on his ‘quixotic job’ 
at the studio. It would bore him to death to have to 
dine with me.” 

“Dear no, child. Besides he’s quite a personage, 
a sort of lion in his way. He took on the studio 
as a jest I believe. The eminent Tacconata is an old 
friend of his. Killed two birds by amusing himself 
and doing a favor to the maestro. Berinari has a 
name, but he’s only a mondain. Donald is somebody. 
So we’ll have both. How’s your mother ? We called 
when we came, but missed her.” 

“Very well, thank you. You’ll see her to-morrow 
night when you come for me. I’m on your way to 
Caesari’s, you know. Arrivederla!” 

With a laugh and a friendly flick of the wrist 
she was gone. 

“Jove!” exclaimed Tuck Magargle. 


412 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 

W HETHER Faith would or would not give 
consent to her plan of campaign never entered 
tered Joan’s head. Her mother’s confidence had 
never been shaken, so why should it now? In fact, 
Faith, seeing modern tendencies, rather wondered 
that Joan had not rebelled before. The smarter set 
of young Romans among whom the girl found her 
friends was given over to an after-war gaiety of 
which Faith had small conception. Rome amused 
itself. It was simply that. And from time imme¬ 
morial when Rome set about amusing itself, tradi¬ 
tional skyrockets flew. 

But here was where Michael’s whimsey had meta¬ 
morphosed itself into practical philosophy. Joan’s 
dreams had held her, her dreams and her work. 
When she casually told her mother how she had run 
into the trio, the last on earth to whom Faith would 
have confided her, that they had invited her to dine 
at Caesari’s and that she had accepted, her mother 
never thought of forbidding her to go, or suggest¬ 
ing that she reconsider. Donald Kaye would be there 
and he was Michael’s friend, that was enough. So, 

413 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


when Joan started off next morning for the studio, 
Faith watched her with a song in her heart, glad 
that she was to have the pleasure of a party that 
night. 

Tacconata was back in his place. A black band 
encircled his left arm, otherwise everything seemed 
much as usual except to Joan, whose quick ears 
caught in the tone of his voice a hint of detachment. 
When he came to her canvas he stood for a long 
time, watching the play of her brush, noting the 
lightness of touch, the subtlety that would one day 
be the hall-mark of her work. 

“Well done, little American! Tacconata can at 
least feel that he has given to the world one com¬ 
pleted masterpiece.” 

“What do you mean, Maestro?” 

“What you must know, piccola. I have nothing 
more to teach you. For more than a year I have 
had nothing to teach you. Indeed, I doubt if Tac¬ 
conata ever had. You take a peasant girl, a simple 
Suchari out of the fields with a bunch of poppies in 
her hand. What do you make of her? An enchan¬ 
tress, weird or mystical, luring human creatures to 
her own sweet will.” 

“I’m glad you said that, Maestro. It would al¬ 
ways be a sweet will. I want goodness in my work.” 
Joan spoke earnestly. She never tried to deceive 
this kindly maestro, however wicked the spirit that 
moved her to act in these painful days toward the 
rest of her small world. 


414 


THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 


“And so you have. And so you are. But not 
another among you can paint what she does not see, 
what lies clearer to the artist than all the realism 
in the world.” 

“Romilda can.” 

“Romilda mia.” It was a caress rather than an 
assent. An adoring breath. Then he sighed. Joan 
knew he knew. The adoration, the caress were 
hopeless. His patient waiting had come to noth¬ 
ing. 

Very much later—perhaps a whole month later, 
she got the entire story from Graziella, Graziella 
who had bided her time. 

“The shadows had grown,” she told Joan. “It 
was nearly dark. I remained late to clean my 
brushes. They had forgotten me, or perhaps the 
Signorina knew that I was there and preferred to 
have me so, though she pretended she did not know. 
The model was there, too, but she had fallen asleep 
behind her screen and Tacconata, so kind always, 
did not disturb her. I heard him say to the Signor¬ 
ina, ‘You knew It had come?’ 

“ ‘I knew the old Duke had died,’ she said. 

“ ‘My playtime—here—is an at end. You knew 
that?’ 

“ ‘I knew that sooner or later it would be so.” 

“ ‘And what is it to be for us, carina mia?” 

“ ‘What you make of it, Maestro.’ 

“ ‘There is no reason why I should wait. There 
is the Palazzo, empty. And it must be filled. It 

4H 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


cannot always echo to emptiness any more than my 
life can always echo to loneliness.’ 

“ ‘It is to you fill your life, Maestro.’ 

“She seemed to be proposing to him, didn’t 
she?” 

Graziella shrugged her shoulders. 

“Perhaps. I thought—but as it turned out I was 
entirely wrong.” 

“What did Tacconata say?” 

“Ugh! I never dreamed I should see him abject, 
but abject he certainly became. Joan, he went on his 
knees!” 

“How awful. Would she stand for it?” 

“She tried not to. But he refused to get up till 
she was almost rude. Cielo ! Had he but said those 
words of love to me!” 

“You say you love him, yet you don’t mind all 
this? What are you made of, Graziella?” 

“Oh, la ! Why should I care? Everybody knows 
the Signorina is in love with the Kaye and he with 
her. That’s what counts with me. I get my Tac¬ 
conata on the rebound. It’s quite understandable.” 

“Well, it certainly is not American. If you love, 
you love. If you hate, you hate. And you don’t 
stand for poachers.” 

Again a shrug of the Italian shoulders and a lazy 
smile. No wonder it was impossible to infuse soul 
into the painting of this daughter of the South. 

“Me? I loved to listen to his words—so like 
music they were. What he said was this: ‘Patience, 

416 


THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 

amore mia, just listen, then tell me what I am to 
do.” 

‘‘Still on his silly knees?” 

‘‘Still at her feet. New Duca degli Fosse e Mon- 
tagne! Tacconata? Pooh! There’s little I don’t 
know about the Maestro. And for that matter, 
about the Signorina, though every one suspects a 
mystery.” 

“Mystery probably adds to her interest. What 
next?” 

“I remember every word. He told her he had 
waited patiently all the years, that he had always 
loved her, would wait no longer, had never loved 
anyone else.” 

“They all say that. And then?” 

“As to being duchesa, she knew all that before¬ 
hand. She knew he’d kept the Via Margutta studio 
going just as a child loves to play with a favorite 
toy. And I believe she knew he did it to keep her 
going, too.” 

“As poor as that?” 

“Desperately, since the war.” 

“Well, if it’s true about Donald Kaye, she won’t 
have to suffer poverty very long.” 

“No. That’s true. Not long now.” 

“Was that the end of it all?” 

“La, no! She said, ‘If you don’t get up, Maestro, 
I shall laugh.’ Laugh! How could she? It cut him 
rather, so he got up. Then she said: ‘That’s better. 
I can’t be serious when people kneel to me.’ Bitterly 

417 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


he said: ‘People?’ And she answered with an 
Americanism she took from you-” 

“She does not* even leave me my Americanisms, 
does she?” 

“Well, she did say, ‘It has been done’ and laughed 
again. Then she said in earnest: ‘If I loved you, 
and I have never loved you, I could not marry you. 
Oh, don’t mistake. You have been the kindest, best, 
most devoted friend in all the world. No. I don’t 
even except Donald.” 

“Generous of her,” mused Joan. 

“He flared up at that, but she said: ‘You’ve got to 
trust me. I am free to give my friendship where 
and how I please. You are the closest, but I cannot 
marry you. Forgive me if I hurt you. Some day 
you will be glad I spoke so frankly. For a long 
time I have hoped you would let this question be¬ 
tween us drop. Now I see I’ll have to leave the 
studio. It would neither be fair to you nor to me 
if I stayed.” 

“What on earth happened then, Graziella?” 

“He answered not one word, but took up his hat 
and started out. I tried to make myself small against 
the wall. I hoped in the dusk he would not see 
me. But how could I?” 

Joan laughed then. Graziella would have had 
difficulty in making herself invisible anywhere. 

“I stood so, rigid, rivetted to the wall.” 

“It’s rather a wonder he didn’t kill you.” 

“Yes, isn’t it? But he just stopped, looked at me 

418 



THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 


and asked, ‘You heard?’ I said that I had. ‘What 
do you think of it?’ he continued. Oh, I thought 
of La Gioconda, of Rigoletto, of Mona Lisa, of 
all the sinister operas where they give you a cup of 
tea with one hand and stab you with the other, but 
as I loved him, and if I died it would be because I 
loved him, I answered what I really thought: ‘If 
the signorina da Paolo does not love you, you would 
never have been happy with her.’ Of course, I know 
now he only asked me these questions because she 
was there and heard everything. All he said 
then was, ‘Child, I suppose you are right. Buona 
notte!’ ” 

Then came the night at Caesari’s. Joan would 
rather have driven out in the car with Berinari, 
known as Riccardo among his intimates, than 
with Donald Kaye. But it was Donald who saw 
to it that she was left neither to the mercies 
of Berinari nor Magargle, both of whom had man- 
oeuvered in vain for the place Kaye had taken— 
Joan herself would have shrunk from the long drive 
with Tuck Magargle. It would have been too much 
to ask of her she thought, so, seated beside Hazel 
Trent and Donald in front beside the chauffeur, she 
drove in state to independence. 

“I can’t believe my eyes when I look at you, child. 
You were an odd mouse. We have been wasting 
our sympathy grieving that Faith’s daughter was 
growing up away from the fads and frivols of our 

419 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


world. We thought your mother had immured you 
in the dustbin of ages with goggles on your nose 
and all the history of early Rome at your finger 
tips.” 

“As bad as that?” asked Joan. 

“Quite.” Not able to stop smoking even in the 
open, Hazel ordered the car stopped while she 
lighted a fresh cigarette. 

“What about the natural evolution of youth, Mrs. 
Trent, don’t you think she had too good a beginning 
not to keep going ahead?” asked Donald. 

“Oh, you mean the painting and all that. I 
suppose so. How on earth do you do it, child? 
Successes in Paris, London exhibitions and all 
that.” 

“Born in one. No credit to me; I love it. Besides, 
Passiflore is much more of an artist. And we live 
together.” 

“Oh, yes. Diana’s hunchback.” 

Joan felt her face burn in the dark. 

“Passiflore’s my friend, Mrs. Trent. No one ever 
thinks of her affliction when they know her for what 
she is.” 

“But, child, she’s Japanese.” 

“Well, aren’t we Americans? Isn’t this Italy? 
Count Berinari’s an Italian. Where’s the differ¬ 
ence ?” 

“But her mother and father were-” 

“Please don’t say it. Her mother was the daugh¬ 
ter of a nobleman. Mystery, yes. But don’t you 

420 



THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 


think, Mr. Kaye, that mystery enchances the inter¬ 
est of—every person?” 

Joan, little Joan, trying to be grown up and 
worldly and satirical. 

Donald saw only a girl who stood on the front 
steps of a house in New York, a girl without a hat 
carrying a dead parrot in her arms. 

“No, I can’t say that I do. Do you?” 

“I’ve always thought so,” she answered and Don¬ 
ald had not the remotest idea at what she was driv¬ 
ing. Then he changed the subject. 

“Did you know our studio trembles? Did you 
know it might fall any day?” 

Joan left the answer to Mrs. Trent for her heart 
beat to suffocation. 

“Then back to your candlesticks, eh, Donald? 
Like it?” 

“Whether I like it or not, Larry needs me in 
Paris for a few weeks.” 

“I thought Bobby Van Dysart was there.” 

“He is. But I have to take them the result of my 
work here.” 

“Soon?” 

“Whenever they send for me. I don’t believe 
right away, but I can’t tell.” 

Joan’s breath came more freely. At the table 
she was next to Berinari, and expected to find 
the man whom all Rome knew, whom Hazel 
called a mondain, vastly interesting. But outside, 
beyond ruined arches, purple shadows drifted over 

421 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


spectral aqueducts, flocks of sheep like other float¬ 
ing clouds, moved tranquilly across campagna 
stretches. Somewhere, a shepherd called and sheep¬ 
dogs answered. The artist in her wandered while 
she tried politely to fix her attention. The man she 
hated faced her across the table. But—out to her 
right the Roman night in all its glory- 

Berinari, accustomed to adulation all his life, 
finding his young neighbour dreamy and distrait, 
laid her dreaminess and distraction to his own fasci¬ 
nation. Towards the end of the dinner, Olga 
drawled through smoky spirals: 

“He tells us he is leaving for Paris because Larry 
wants him!” 

Hazel laughed; “Come now, Donald, ’fess up. 
Is it only Larry?” Then Joan wakened, fully 
aroused. With a little worldly air she said: “Why 
not Larry? If there hadn’t been candlestick-makers 
centuries ago we shouldn’t have been dining at Caes- 
ari’s tonight, should we? Progress, dear lady. We 
must go on. He takes his Roman aquisition to*the 
other candlestick-makers in Paris.” 

Her coming to his defence much as Faith would 
have done, rather surprised Kaye, while it amused 
the older women. Berinari, seeing in Joan an asso¬ 
ciate of his own gay world, decided to enlighten 
her, though it was Tuck Magargle who opened the 
way. 

“Mysterious Quatro Fontana, my boy! Paris? 
You can’t escape so easily.” 

422 



THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 

What were they all talking about? Again the 
stifling sensation that had overcome her at first 
mention of Donald’s going away. The coffee cups 
were being removed and liquors brought. Why 
need she stay? The air was heavy- 

“I’m going to watch the moon rise if you don’t 
mind, Mrs. Trent. Just from the arch over there. 
No, please don’t come with me, anybody. The 
smoke’s a bit stuffy.” Berinari threw his cigarette 
away and got up. 

“Oh, let her have her own way, Riccardo. She’s 
a really great artist and takes more interest in the 
moon than chartreuse even if she is an American,” 
said Hazel. Berinari only smiled and lifted the 
azure of his military cloak about his shoulders. He 
was remarkably good-looking and quite aware of it. 

“I think I would like to show her our moon from 
Caesari’s.” 

Joan smiled up at him. “Very well then, you may 
if you like. But as it is exclusively my moon and 
knows me nobody need show it to me.” But he 
was already threading his way between the tables. 
Others of the diners wondered who Riccardo Beri¬ 
nari had in tow to-night. She was unlike the type 
he usually affected. Kaye who saw, did not like it, 
but for the present he could do nothing, so held his 
soul in patience. 

“Here, Miss Desmond. Look, I’ll spread my 
cloak outside the glare, within sound of the music, 
in sight of —our moon. What better?” 

423 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“Better than listening to gossip about people who 
mean nothing to one. I always did hate gossip.” 

“Have you no curiosity, you American women, 
Signorina?” 

“Not unless we happen to be particularly inter¬ 
ested.” 

Her face was turned away. Her eyes followed 
the night. The man could not place her, could not 
understand what she was doing with these others if 
she were not one of them. They had told him she 
was the artist whose work had been the talk of 
Rome last winter, that she still painted at Taccona- 
ta’s studio. But yet, he did not understand. Vivid 
coloring framed against the arch, long jade earrings 
matching the jade about her neck and the ribbon 
twisted in the jet black of her hair, filmy black dress 
to bring out with clearer effect the brilliance of her 
color—she was refreshment indeed, to his wearied 
eyes. Why did she so hate Kaye? Anyone could 
see she did. Yet she came to his defence. Why? 
Intriguante! Easy enough to see why she shrank 
from that bounder Magargle. Finer fibre than the 
rest, she must be. They did not shrink from him. 
How could he tell that the little worldly expression 
in Joan’s face was an artist’s mask to hide the inno¬ 
cent childishness of eyes now turned away from 
him ? 

“You mean it’s nothing to you that they tease 
Kaye?” 

“No. Why should it be?” 

424 


THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 

“Yet you defended him.” 

“I always defend the one that’s down.” 

“Magargle’s given to gossip and that sort of 
thing.” 

“Is he?” 

“He’s afraid of being left out in the cold if he 
doesn’t seem to know what everybody else is talking 
about. Whether he does or not.” 

“Oh!” 

“Jealous of adventure! He doesn’t like to have 
people think he’s not in the know.” 

“I don’t see what that has to do with what he 
said to—Mr. Kaye.” 

“Everything. You see he came over with Kaye 
and the others. Of course, Kaye, being an old 
habitue of Rome, goes off on his own, picks up his 
old adventures—and Tuck wants to be let in. That’s 
the trouble.” 

Passiflore’s words came to Joan— “That, that’s 
the devil.” 

Then she thought, “Well, what if it is? I could 
not hate him more than I do. Why shouldn’t I 
know what everyone else knows. Why should 
I take his side if he doesn’t deserve to have me take 
it? I’m ignorant as it is. Why not find out the 
truth?” 

Turmoil stirring her breast, she said quietly: 

“Tell me. I might as well know as the rest. 
What is it?” 

“You really want me to?” 

425 


THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 

“Yes. I somehow can’t bear to listen to Magar- 
gle’s voice. You tell me.” 

So he told her. 

“Sunset after sunset, Signorina, one who never 
glances to the right or left as she walks up 
Quatro Fontana, will be seen talking with anima¬ 
tion to him alone. Why, anyone standing at a 
nearby window can see the eyes raised to his flash 
and grow soft by turn. I have seen her quite alone, 
but Kaye is never far behind, laden with flowers. 
Invariably flowers. Naturally Rome talks. I have 
seen them from Magargle’s rooms in the Italie, 
opposite. I’ve never seen her face, but there is 
something familiar about the figure as she walks.” 

“Romilda da Paolo!’’ The name burst from 
Joan’s lips against her will. 

“She! What wonder!” Berinari exclaimed. How 
could I have been so stupid?” 

“You know her?” 

“For years I have not seen her. All Rome did 
know her. Before the war she was the—how do 
you say—the toast of the town. She was to have 
married my cousin, del Monte. Oh, he fought 
every one of us in his day. We were all at her feet. 
I can say this. I am a Roman and sometimes speak 
the truth. Del Monte was worth everv man of us. 

j 

Having once loved him, few women could have 
dreamed of anyone else. Kaye! Inconceivable.” 

“Let’s go back to the others,” said Joan, sick at 
heart. “After all, it doesn’t concern us.” 

426 


THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 

Strange child, strange young heart. She might 
hate Donald as she professed, but in his life and 
Joan’s, Berinari, stranger, in one moment’s gossip 
played his part and playing it had hurt her. For 
many years after, the memory of Caesari’s, the 
arched windows, the white moving flocks, fleecy 
clouds flying before a waning moon would touch the 
wound and make it ache anew. 

On the way home she was silent. Had she been 
older, more worldly-wise, she might have hidden 
her pain under an assumed gaiety. Not Joan. This, 
this was the end. She would never return to Via 
Margutta. The studio might open, might continue, 
might close, might burn up, fly up, blow up. It 
would not matter. She had her own studio with 
Passy. She need never see Romilda again. And as 
to Donald Kaye! Another brilliant stroke of Mich¬ 
ael Crighton’s. Why would he always mix up in 
the tangle of her life? Without him it would not 
have been a tangle. 

All the while, Donald Kaye sat and wondered 
why the joyous little creature with her new assump¬ 
tion of womanhood should in so short a time have 
changed into a shrinking, pathetic child who only 
asked to be taken home. Whatever it was, it had 
evidently begun with the foolish badinage that cul¬ 
minated in her flight to outer air. What had Ber¬ 
inari told her? 

“What’s come over you, child?” asked Hazel. 

Faith’s child was a puzzle, indeed. 

427 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


‘‘I’m tired and not accustomed to late hours.” 
Joan managed to smile. 

“Don’t mind if I don’t talk. One likes to be still 
on such a night as this. One might disturb the stars, 
you know.” 

“What an extraordinary idea!” exclaimed Mag- 
argle, who had managed to put himself in the return¬ 
ing car with Joan and began to think he’d made a 
mistake. 

“Not so extraordinary when you stop to realize 
how hideous the things that crawl the earth can be, 
in comparison to the beauty of the sky,” she flashed 
back. 

“She certainly is tired. You’ll feel better tomor¬ 
row, Jo an. I’ll give a party at the Grand hotel 
next week and you’ll come. There’ll be no distract¬ 
ing sky—no temptation to carry pictures away in 
your mind to paint. Eh? What about it?” 

“It’s awfully kind of you, but I shall be busy with 
my work from now on, no playtime. But thanks 
just the same. Here we are. No, please don’t 
help me, anybody. Some one is waiting up, you see, 
there’s a light. It’s Hana. Goodnight, everybody.” 

As she gave her hand to Hazel, the other woman 
exclaimed: 

“Hana! Isn’t that the name of the Japanese 
woman who disapp-” 

“No!” cried Joan. “It’s nobody you ever heard 
of before—any of you in all your lives!” 

She flew to the door where Hana stood in the 

428 



THE MYSTERY OF QUATRO FONTANA 


glare of the hall lights and pulled it tightly closed 
behind her. 

“Oh, Hana ! Hana 1” 

* * * * * * 

“It must be nerves. How extraordinary.” 

“Temperament Tuck. She was like that as a 
child. Leaving us here, Donald? Why not let 
us jog you along to your dug-out?” 

“Not to-night. I think I’ll walk. And—by the 
way, I start for Paris to-morrow. Tell the other 
car goodnight—and goodbye.” 


429 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


HANA WATCHES 

L ittle child! Little child!” 

“Put me to bed, Hana. Then let me talk 
to you. I’m so tired. It’s such an ugly world. 
There’s nothing in it, nothing at all.” 

“Little Joan, poor my Joan,” crooned Hana the 
while she brushed and smoothed the girl’s hair, 
petting her as if she were Passiflore, kneeling beside 
her when she sobbed her prayers. 

“That he dared tell me such things! Such dread¬ 
ful things that hurt me—because I loved Romilda— 
though I’ve always despised Kaye. And now? Why 
is it this must come to me? And through Uncle 
Michael again. I’m only twenty, Hana. Other girls 
don’t have to suffer so. Why must I?” 

All the while Joan rambled on, Hana murmured 
soothing, endearing words, now Japanese, now En¬ 
glish. And all the while she was thinking what she 
did not even murmur. Donald Kaye seemed to 
Hana a second incarnation of Michael Crighton, 
and both had touched the mountain-peaks of the 
gods. Hana had lived enough not to be mistaken 
in persons who meant much to her. Donald meant 

430 


HANA WATCHES 


very much, enough for her to see that had Raphael 
been, he would have been no less than Donald. Don¬ 
ald was so much Michael that he might have been 
Michael’s son, the point of view, manner of speech 
alike. And the paramount thing, love for Joan, 
that was the same, too, though in different 
measure. To Michael she was the daughter of his 
house, to Kaye, love of his heart. 

Hana had seen it in his eyes, caught it in the ca¬ 
dence of his voice, known that he felt Joan’s pres¬ 
ence in a room, though she made no sound. 
Oh, that he might not fail her! Michael was 
kind and understanding to all who came his way. 
Would not Donald grow to be like him in that? 
They vcere so alike. The older man had taken his 
life into his hands and moulded it to the will of One 
Whose will is everything. 

Would the younger do the same? 

Student of history, the world, its people, Michael 
Crighton’s interests were keener, more alive, more 
virile by far, now that he had passed beyond the 
middle milestone, than when he stood knocking at 
Hildegarde’s heart* as Donald stood beating at 
Joan’s. 

For he was beating at it with all the love in his 
own. There could be no mistake about it, gossip 
to the contrary. Why was it the child must suffer 
so through every stage of her young life? How 
could she not know? Passiflore, Hana’s passion¬ 
flower, would never read tenderness, sweetness, 

431 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


sheltering devotion such as Joan could read if she 
would only look. Would she not? Oh, did Hana 
but know! Did she but know! 

And now, with the pitiful story Joan sobbed out 
to her from between the pillows, came wonder that 
such gossip could be repeated, but never a misgiving. 
Who was it denied the beauty of this Donald’s soul? 
A satellite hanger-on of the very group who had 
condemned Hana to life-long exile from her own, 
he and another of the same fibre. One was unctuous, 
fatuous, having a mind as lethargic as his torpid 
body; the other, serpentine, insinuating, artful, syco¬ 
phantic, now luring to confidence, then turning that 
confidence to his own intent. Donald’s ingenuous¬ 
ness alone, against these two as weapon! But his 
honesty, his frankness were the stronger metal. 
Through unerring instinct Hana knew it. 

“A grave mistake was made, little child. The 
thing, it is not true.” 

“He saw them. Day after day, night after night 
he says he saw them. Rather he did not so much 
say it as lead me to believe it was so. Mother 
wouldn’t stand for his telling me such things if she 
knew. It would hurt her that anyone—dared.” 

“It would do no good to tell your mother. She 
could not undo that he told such lies. It would pain 
her heart. And she could not do what Hana is 
going to do. Now you must sleep.” 

“Sleep? I will never sleep again.” 

“Joan must sleep. Hana knows women and she 

432 


HANA WATCHES 


knows men. She knows the good, and she knows the 
bad. Those people did not tell the truth. It is easy 
for them. They have nothing to lose. A good 
name is easily lost. They have not a good name. 
They can lie and laugh when the lie has wounded 
a heart to death. But the time comes, sooner or 
later, when payment must be made. Early or late, 
he pays, who has lied. Now listen, my Joan. This 
do I promise. And I keep my word. Hana is going 
to learn all the truth. By midnight to-morrow, Hana 
is going to bring all the truth to Joan. And I prom¬ 
ise more. I promise that they lied. Now sleep.” 

And Joan slept, slept while Hana softly sang to 
her as she had sung to Passiflore long ago in the 

torrid summer- It came back to her now, the 

restless child, the noises in the street, Diana wait¬ 
ing in the darkness, a little clay kitten in her hand, 
her heart listening with every beat for the doctor’s 
step- 

Faith found Joan next morning waking with tears 
in her eyes as if she had been crying in her sleep. 

“What is it, sweetheart? Mother hoped you 
had had a happy time.” 

“I did, Mother. Oh, I did, but perhaps I cried 
about something different. Maybe I thought I was 
homesick about not going back to Via Margutta.” 

“Not going back to the studio? Why, dear?” 

“Well, I thought it all out last night after I came 
home. I’ll go to fetch my things to-day. Tacconata 
is leaving, Romilda is going, Kaye said he was 

433 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


obliged to report in Paris to Aunt Diana’s Larry. 

I believe they will close it altogether. I’ll join Passy, 
upstairs. Of course, I’ll have to swear not to look 
at what she’s doing.” 

“Brava! I’ll be glad to have you both at home. 
Why not run up and tell her before you go to get 
your things?” 

“I will, Mummie, I will.” 

Back to Via Margutta, only to find it deserted 
as she had thought it might be, a desultory student 
or two, weeping over its emptiness. Then a fever¬ 
ish day that somehow seemed never to end. But at 
last, twilight. 

“Can Mrs. Desmond spare Hana to-night. It 
may be very late.” 

“You are free to come and go, as I, Hana. What 
about your dinner? Must you go at once?” 

“I would like to go now. There is a long 
walk to take. Dinner is not as necessary as the 
walk.” 

She smiled at Joan, who stood looking out of 
the window, white-faced, her heart in her throat. 

“What about Incubo? I’ll send for him. If you 
have a long walk to take, better drive.” 

“No Incubo, please. I would be quite alone. I 
would watch the stars come over Rome, one by 
one,” laughed Hana. “Perhaps Hana would even 
drop her pennies in Trevil’s waters by moon- 
iight.” . 

Passiflore, who came in at that moment, ques- 

434 


HANA WATCHES 


tioned the curious whim of her mother to go out 
alone for so long a time. 

“Mother, darling, if you wait till later we can all 
go together.” 

“Tomorrow, if you like, my flower,” said her 
mother, stooping down to kiss her. “To-night I go 
alone. There are things we like to see—alone.” 

To hide the kimono she always wore she had 
covered herself with a large, black shawl like those 1 
the Venetian women wear and held it well up about 
her face. 

She walked the length of Via Sistina to where 
Piazza Barberini divides it from Via Quatro Fon¬ 
tana, and a little further on. It would never do to 
be seen by eyes that might perchance be watching 
from behind the closely curtained windows of the 
Italia, so she clung to the wall and in the deeper 
shadows. 

If it were true that Donald Kaye would follow 
shortly,—the man had said every night, she must 
not be seen, yet. There were gardens across the 
way. She would wait just inside the iron gate. The 
rhododendrons at that spot were high above her 
head. 

Once safely screened from any keen-eyed passer¬ 
by, she began to look about for the house Berinari 
had described so accurately to Joan. A light that 
flashed just then through the darkness was like a 
signal. There could be no mistake. Signorina da 
Paola with her own hands placed a lamp carefully 

435 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


in the window of a room on the second floor. Hana 
had seen her too often with Joan not to recognize 
her at once. What could the signal mean? Hana 
told herself again the story was but fabrication— 
yet her heart sank a little. 

Of course Kaye would not come. He could not. 
Why should she receive this young Englishman when 
the artist who had sacrificed himself for years in 
the pursuit of her was not allowed to cross her 
threshold. Then—a ringing step along the pave¬ 
ment as Hana caught sight of a grey tweed coat, 
sensed the fragrance of a cigarette, watched the 
flick of it, still lighted, into the street—saw the red 
roses- 

She stood and tried with all her might not to 
think and standing there she kept her faith in both, 
Romilda and Donald. The beat of her heart was 
no swifter than it had been a moment before, nor 
was the light of her eyes less bright. Faith in both, 
faith in both. Five minutes passed, and ten. Then 
fifteen minutes more dragged by. Half an hour and 
yet she stood, immobile, her eyes fixed on the change¬ 
less window. There had been no sign of anyone, no 
shadow, but she knew that Donald Kaye was where 
the lanterns shone and that where Donald was, all 
must be well. 

But the Japanese woman was not the only one who 
watched. The thickly curtained windows of the 
Italia hid more than shadows. 

“Paris to-day! Ha! Rot!” 

436 



HANA WATCHES 


“There’s a midnight train.” 

“So there is. D'you think he’ll take it?” 

“Who knows? Who cares? Romilda! The 
frozen one! Who could have believed it? Who 
would have believed it?” 

“I say, Riccardo, what think friend Romilda 
might be toddling off to Paris tonight. What?” 

Serpentine face grown sinister within the hour, 
Berinari rose, caught the cerulean blue of his cloak 
about him, picked up a hat, fallen among the 
decanters that made the chief ornament of Mag- 
argle’s centre table and started for the door. 

“Arrivederla Signore Tuck.” 

“Hel-lo! Not going so soon? What’s the 
hurry?” 

“I have the good fortune, the misfortune, call it 
what you will, to be dining with the duchesa della 
Roverti to-night. Otherwise I should stay and en¬ 
joy the comedy across the way.” A gesture of self¬ 
justification, a shrug, a coil of the snake-like 
hands. “We’ve seen what we have seen. As to 
waiting for Kaye to emerge, why should one? He 
is neither as young nor as beautiful as the signorina. 
Were she to come out, that would be another story. 
A domani, amico mio.” 

“Oh, I say, don’t forget there are to be high jinks 
at the Clavering’s to-morrow.” 

“La bella Olga! Ugh! But the—jinks? That’s 
another story. To-morrow.” 

With a flourish of the hat he was gone. 

437 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Still Hana watched. She missed no detail of the 
clink of spur along the stones, fling of blue cape 
about impatient shoulders, arrogant boot, tapping 
restlessly at the step across the way, eager scanning 
of the second story window that kept its secret as did 
the very sphinxes beside the Pincio gates. With 
eyes that shone in the gathering dark like the eyes 
of a cat, he made a guess as to the lamp above his 
head. One could always apologize for a mistake. 
Sinuously Berinari glided up the inner stair where 
Donald had preceded him. 

Then, and only then, did Hana move. She 
darted swiftly across the street, into the vestibule 
which, like the vestibules of countless other Roman 
houses, lay open to the passer-by, then, up the time¬ 
worn steps. At the top of the second flight she 
flattened herself against the wall. She had been 
there hardly a moment when the door opened. 

“Berinari! What are you doing here?” 

“Why not, Signorina mia, old friend and love of 
my lost youth, why not? Only yesterday I learned 
that you were back in Rome and living here. I’ve 
been home myself so short a time. Will you not 
let me in, arnica mia?” 

“I receive no one. It is well known. You must 
g0 ‘” 

“No one? But, Signorina Romilda, surely you 
mistake. I thought as I glanced up, with my poor 
heart hammering across the wasted years, I saw the 
shadow of a new-found friend thrown for an instant 

43 8 


HANA WATCHES 


on the window-shade. If one, why not another? So 
old and close a friend as I!” 

“I see no one. You may not stay.” The voice 
had grown dangerously cold. 

“But there was no one to tell me you did not re¬ 
ceive, no maid-” 

“Forgive me, mistress, that I return so late from 
your errand.” Then as though Romilda were still 
invisible, Hana spoke to the amazed man: 

“The Signorina da Paolo is not at home.” 

Bare-headed as she had come, the black shawl 
fallen on the stone floor outside, she slipped 
between Berinari and the open door and stood in 
the ante-room facing him, Signorina da Paolo behind 
her. 

Surprised out of his sang-froid he stepped back 
as she advanced forcing him out into the hall. Then 
with an expression of utmost candor, Hana said, “I 
will tell the Signorina one called, an officer who 
would honourably have forced his way against her 
orders. Good night, signor.” She closed the door 
in his face. 

Romilda turned to look at her. 

“What are you? An angel?” 

Hana laughed. “You look at my kimono and ask 
if I am an angel. The sleeves perhaps.” 

“You are Joan’s Hana.” 

“Yes, Signorina.” 

“How came you here?” 

“There had been a mistake. The child was heart- 

439 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

broken and sick. This man—who went away—did 
tell her that which broke her heart.” 

“And you came to find out how much truth there 
was in it?” 

“Hana came to prove it was a lie. Miss Joan is 
not like other girls. It is a rare and sensitive heart. 
And she thought she hated. But I knew it was 
different. When this—man—tell her what he did, 
she thought the anger was with Signorina da Paolo 
—but the anger is with the pain, here.” She laid 
her hand on her breast. 

“You may be Joan’s Hana, but you appear 
like an angel from Heaven. I know Count Berinari 
of old. Had you not come, there would have 
been a scandal all over Rome to-morrow. How 
did you do it?” 

“It is simple. To prove to her that Mr. 
Kaye would not come, I watched. Another too, he 
watched. Across the street, from the Italia. I 
cannot say the name of him who is so hideous that 
lives there. The Count Berinari must have watched 
from that hideous one’s rooms. Well,—byemby I 
did see what I came to prove I would not see. Still 
—do I know it is some mistake. The one came I 
did not want to see. And he carried—flowers it 
hurt my little one to hear about. Still did I watch, 
sure I could tell her that which would stop her 
crying.” 

“Did Joan cry about it?” asked Romilda, 
amazed. 


440 



HANA WATCHES 


“I tell you,” answered Hana simply, “it was her 
heart that broke.” 

“Go on.” 

“I saw Mr. Kaye. Then I saw shadows on the 
curtains across the way, and I said, watch, Hana, 
there will be more. And he came, that other. 
Signorina knows the rest. That is all.” 

“That is not all. Please follow me.” 

Romilda led the way through a bare room, with 
its four walls unadorned, into a second that might 
have been the cell of an anchorite, then through it 
to a third lighted like the others with oil lamps. 
Apparently everything she could have saved out 
of the wreckage of her property had been gathered 
together for the comfort of its occupant. Who? 
Certainly not for Romilda herself. The bare little 
enclosure through which they had passed, with its 
one chair and dressing table, an eremitic bed and 
crucifix, was hers. For whom then? 

Hana’s eyes followed the Signorina’s to the heav¬ 
ily carved bedstead with its four posts and canopy. 
Beside it, on a small table, stood a great vase of red 
roses whose perfume shed its fragrance through¬ 
out the whole apartment. Long, rigid, emaciated, 
stretched a figure on the bed, and beside it clasping 
in his strong right hand what appeared to be the 
bony fingers of a skeleton, knelt Donald Kaye. He 
turned as they came in and rose astounded at sight 
of Hana. 

“It’s all right, Donald. I’m glad she came. Only 

441 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


for Joan would I have broken the secrecy of years. 
Only for her—and you. Listen. She must be told. 
For me it will not matter soon. For him—he is 
beyond caring, my Raphaello. Come closer, Hana. 
Look.” 

Gently she turned down the sheet that had 
swathed itself like a pall about the figure that lay 
there all unconscious. 

What Hana saw was a mass of snow-white hair, 
and under it, parchment-brown, a face. Face? There 
was skin drawn tightly across a skull, a haggard jaw 
hanging loose and senseless, eyes, that once had 
been the most brilliant eyes in Italy, sightless, hol¬ 
low, death in the depths of them. 

Romilda drew the sheet up to the mouth, then 
covered her face with her hands. “Tell her, 
Donald.” 

Fearful lest even through gathering shadows he, 
who had been a man might hear and be hurt by 
what he heard, Donald led Hana to the window 
on the other side of the room while Romilda took 
his place. 

“It’s not a long story, but it’s like the Middle 
Ages, and fully explains what you came to prove. 
Part of it Joan knows, for all Rome knew the be¬ 
ginning, but the end has been the Signorina’s secret. 
There had been a life-long fued between the families 
del Monte and da Paolo. The Signorina Romilda 
was the most popular and sought after of the Roman 
girls of her day. She loved del Monte despite the 

442 


HANA WATCHES 


family differences. He idolized her, though every 
mother of Rome, Florence, Milan, Venice, wanted 
him for her daughter. He would have no one but 
Romilda, and their marriage was made impossible. 
But they became engaged in spite of everything, 
every one. She was only seventeen. Then—Sar- 
avejo. Oh, Raphaello was a man! There may be 
Berinaris but thank God for the del Montes 
who outnumber them! Like the rest of the 
world he thought the war would be over in a 
few months, and Italy, not moving swiftly enough, 
he came to England and joined my own British fly¬ 
ing corps. I went in from my first year at Oxford. 
As to the Signorina she simply left home and her 
family, came to England, took an intensive training, 
and was sent to the front with the Red Cross. When 
he fell—the wings of his machine were riddled like 
a honey-comb and collapsed, the miracle happened, 
she was there, and on duty. It was his spine. When 
he came out of his first hours of unconsciousness his 
mind was clear, and he asked for the truth. They 
said he could not live through the night, so he asked 
Romilda to marry him. Why not? What were 
family or feud in a war-flayed world with Raphaello 
dying? If by acceding to his wish she could give 
him one blessed moment of peace, why not? She 
would have given her life for him. The chaplain 
came—it was I who explained things. He married 
them. 

“I stood by, with a Canadian nurse, afterwards 

443 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


killed in the shelling of her base hospital. And 
Raphaello did not die. Oh, Italy buried him all 
right and officially. To all intents and purposes he 
fell to his death. I won’t go into his return to un¬ 
consciousness, nor the paralysis that gradually crept 
up. After a while his wife got leave, and took him 
to a hospital on Lake Garda. Though she knew he 
would never fight again nor be able to join the 
Italian forces after the country came in, she hoped 
against hope for his recovery. Then, the armistice. 
She left him, came to Rome, found not only that 
her personal fortune had been dissipated but also, 
that of the del Monte millions not a sou remained. 
So she went back to Garda and established her hus¬ 
band with the family of a peasant. 

“Though Tacconata never knew that Raphaello 
lived, nor that he and Romilda were married, he 
made it possible for her to earn sufficient to support 
them both, and finally to bring the poor broken body 
back to Rome.” 

“I do not see why it had to be kept so secret? 
They had nothing to lose.” 

“If you knew the Romans and their pride you 
would understand. Would you have Signora del 
Monte pull down the sheet to a scoffing city as she 
pulled it down for you? As the sickness crept up, 
one by one the use of his senses left him, his sight 
first, then his hearing. It is because he loved red 
roses more than all the flowers in his garden that I 

444 


HANA WATCHES 


bring them. There may be sense of smell left. 
We don’t even know that.” 

And the man in the blue cloak had said Donald 
brought red roses to Romilda every day! Cruel! 

“Who else knows?” 

“An old Franciscan friar from Collegio San An¬ 
tonio on Via Merulana comes every day, and the 
doctor, and charwoman of the house. That’s all.” 

“His family still lives in Rome?” 

“Some of them. Yes.” 

“Would she not tell them?” 

“Why should she? They think him dead. They 
scattered his fortune, sold his home, and gambled 
away what it brought. They did their best to break 
his heart before the airplane broke his body. What 
were they to him?” 

“Donald!” A frightened voice called to him. 

“What is it, Romilda?” 

“Come quickly. Listen.” 

It was Kaye of the British flying corps that bent 
and put his ear to the heart of a brother officer who 
had loved him, then looked into the eyes that had 
trusted him. 

Gently he pulled up the sheet—higher than be- 
force, while she who had been the toast of Rome, 
knelt, sobbing, by the bed. 


445 


CHAPTER XXIX 


HANA IS WATCHED 

T HE Japanese woman stayed on past midnight. 

Romilda needed her. Kaye, who went him¬ 
self to find the doctor and Franciscan priest, asked 
her as a favor to do this, and she took her instruc¬ 
tions from him without question. 

Everything had to be gone into, there was no 
time to lose. What did it matter where the shadow 
that had been Del Monte, lay? He belonged to 
no one but Romilda, so eventually in a quiet corner 
of San Lorenzo, where descendants of the da Paolo 
slept, he was buried. No one entered there but 
Romilda, and no one questioned the red roses that as 
time went on seemed gifted with eternal life and a 
beauty as glorious as that of Raphaello’s brave 
immortal spirit. 

After the priest and doctor had done their work 
and the kindly charwoman had been roused, there 
was no longer need for Hana to remain, so, draw¬ 
ing the black-fringed shawl well up over her head, 
she startled home, glad of the full moon that lighted 
her steps along the way. 

She passed unnoticed through the deserted streets, 

446 


HANA IS WATCHED 


and, as she walked, her steps grew slower. Never 
had she been alone in the beauty of a Roman night 
and it bewitched her. All the perfumes of the 
enchanted city effused themselves through the air. 
She lifted her face to the sky, breathing deep. 
Quaint childish face raised to the silver light, quaint 
incongruous figure whose mantling shawl revealed 
beneath the heavy fringe, white-stockinged san¬ 
dalled feet, pattering short steps, stopping a few 
moments at a time, then going on, then loitering. 

To prolong the adventure she would go round 
by way of Via Veneto. Save for the moonbeams, 
Quatro Fontana had been quite dark. Not so Via 
Veneto. Emptying out into the moonlight were 
Romans who had dined late, dancing afterwards, 
forestieri lured from their hotels into its magic mys¬ 
tery and venturesome souls who had fared forth 
earlier to the Coliseum and enraptured with the 
night’s enchanting power had wandered back on 
foot. 

It might have been her imagination, or that as 
she passed the flight of stairs across from Queen 
Margarita’s palace, she heard an exclamation. 
Whatever it was, she started, then laughed at her¬ 
self. If imagination, what did it matter? If not, 
a wanderer in the populated district was nothing 
to be afraid of. Tonight’s experience she put away. 
Time enough tomorrow to think back on its trag¬ 
edy and recite it to Joan. 

Suddenly, though she perceived no one, she knew 

447 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


there were footsteps behind her, timing themselves 
with her own. She glanced back nervously, saw 
nothing but deep shadows cast by the walls. 

In Via Porta Pinciana she lost the crowd that 
had flocked into the more fashionable street. 
Though she could not see the tall, slight figure that 
somehow emerged phantom-like from the stones, she 
knew she was being followed. 

Fleet pattered the sandalled feet, tight the shawl 
updrawm to shield her face. As far as she knew, 
she was the last person in Rome to attract unwel¬ 
come attention, but night gives birth to unreason, 
and when the steps became as persistent as they 
were now distinctly audible, Hana was frightened 
to the verge of panic. Faster—faster. 

Thank God, Via Sistina! Here she felt at home 
and somehow better protected. Only a short dis¬ 
tance to be made. She would have taken a cab if 
one had drawn up to the curb, but all the cabs that 
passed had fares, and unluckier drivers had gone 
home to bed. Onward she fled past closely barred 
windows that by day were bright with silver treasure, 
and now gloomed as the prison-house of death. 
Past convent doors barred against the night’s invad¬ 
ers, past the corner of Rome's perennial lame beg¬ 
gar, still the regular tread of footsteps closer now, 
behind her. She must cross the street, though the 
steps came steadily on, and not another creature was 
in sight. Thinking to throw whoever it might be, 
off his guard, she continued straight ahead to the 

448 


HANA IS WATCHED 


Trinita stoop, only to find the gate swung across the 
bottom step. Knowing she would have to cross the 
piazetta in the full flood of glistening moonlight, 
that there was no escape, she felt in the point of 
her sleeve for the key. As she did so, the shawl 
slipped from her head and fell to the paving stones. 

Terrified, she let it lie there and started to run, 
but the man behind her picked up the shawl and 
reached her in a single stride. 

“Your shawl, Signora. Hana!” 

Had the voice rung out to her from Palestine, 
she would have known. 

“It was you—Matsuo.’’ 

“You knew?’’ 

“I felt I was being followed.’’ 

“Where are you going now?’’ 

“Home.” 

“Home?” 

“Here, in this house.” Her head drooped, 
numbly. This little house, sheltering all she had 
in the world, suddenly seemed unreal, her life un¬ 
real, Passiflore unreal—all a dream that was pass¬ 
ing— 

Passiflore! He must not know. He must never, 
never know. 

“What do you do in this house?” 

“I am a servant there.” 

“My God! My God! Tzuru!” 

Fear left her at his cry. She looked quietly at 
him with an expression he had never seen. 

449 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“Why do you cry out? Did you not take me 
from my home to make a servant of me? Why 
should Hana not have remained what Matsuo made 
of her?” 

“Hana! Hana!” 

“What is there more to say? You see me as I 
am. My life is my life. Your life is your life, 
Matsuo. Good-night. Good-bye.” 

She took the shawl from his hand. 

“Can you not stay and talk, even a moment? 
Just one moment? You will go and I may not 
see you again.” 

She must be on her guard. She had heard that 
tone before—long before, while she was still in 
Japan. Perhaps she could serve her own purpose 
better by listening to what he might have to say. 

“Not here.” She went on to the top of the 
Piazza di Spagna steps. Jasmine and orange blos¬ 
soms—up from the kiosks below. 

“I will listen for a short while. Long ago should 
Hana have been in her home.” 

She spoke all the more calmly that her heart was 
in a tumult for anxiety that she might betray the 
sleeping treasure so near—so near. 

“Why did you go, Hana?” 

“That is not for us to discuss. Why did you 
come?” 

“The whole night would not be long enough to 
tell. The story goes far back. But it brings me 
here to Rome.” 


450 


HANA IS WATCHED 


“The time is short. I must go home. Tell 
what you care to say, quickly. I will listen.” 

She leaned her back against the railing that 
touched her shoulders, so small she was, so like a 
little child. But the man who stood before her 
was like a prisoner before his judge. 

“I was not a gardener when I worked in your 
father’s garden.” 

“Tzuru knew that. Why, then?” 

“I had been trained in the school of gardening 
given to the secret service officers of the Japanese 
government, an occupation that gives many open¬ 
ings to where a man might learn—what was to 
learn. You will remember I obtained for your hon¬ 
ourable father another gardener to take my place. 
He should have taken it, anyway, for my time was 
up and I was ready to go where it had long been 
decided I should go. But I had grown to love 
you. I took you with me.” 

“You loved me.” 

“Not like that, oh, Hana. Do not say it like 
that. I loved you truly, but there is one law for 
him who would do such service as I would do. He 
may not marry. There must be no woman in his 
life to hear what might be heard, to carry what 
might be carried.” 

“Was that why at the first you did not wish to 
marry me?” 

He bowed his head. “You see, I was not a 
Christian then.” 


45i 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Nor after, Matsuo.” 

“Only in name, but that was because I did not 
understand. I became a Christian only to win 
you.” 

“Go on.” Grimly she said it. 

“Rumor that an evil, ancient as the hills, was 
coming to our nation, reached Japan. Through 
America it was to come. Whatever the code of 
morals in our country, we hold the marriage law 
sacred. Through the marriage law our country 
abounds in sons. The crime that is the ruin of 
any nation was not to be allowed to poison Japan.” 

“The crime you would have had me do, Matsuo.” 

He raised his clenched fists up to heaven, then 
beat them against his forehead, his breast. 

“I know. I know, may our God forgive me,” 
he cried. “Listen a little longer. My orders had 
come to find out what I could. If the evil is as the 
government believes, stop it, at any price. Do not 
allow it to touch our shores. I had married you 
for love, but I became terrified at thought if there 
were a child, the government would discover. My 
treachery would be all the greater since you were 
the daughter of a great noble. What would they 
do to me? To you?” 

Hana, shuddering within her soul, she who had 
never known cowardice, found peace at sight of 
the dome bathed in calm night, peace that in this 
moment did indeed “pass understanding.” 

Matsuo’s anguished voice went on: 

452 


HANA IS WATCHED 


“All to no good, the pain, the despair. Through 
what crooked way I know not, through what decep¬ 
tion, what cheating, what lies—but they got their 
thing through—these demons of iniquity—in spite 
of us—and now, even our Japan, has learned to 
fling God’s greatest blessing back into His face.” 

Silence. Then- 

“You went away—and going, dropped a baby’s 
shoe in your flight. I knew then. I was dis¬ 
charged. But my country would not allow me to 
leave. So I got Mr. Crighton to keep me in his 
house. Mrs. Crighton hated me. How could she 
help it? So he made use of me in his office.” 

“I know all that, Matsuo. No matter how. I 
know all that.” 

“It was with the hope of finding you I lived. 
But when hope died, I answered the call to return 
to Japan. Even there I sought, thinking you might 
have gone back to your people. That is all—till 
now.” 

“When did you come to Rome?” 

“This morning. It was fate that sent you out 
tonight.” 

“How long do you stay?” 

“I have work to do.” 

“Work?” 

If the finger of scorn could have printed its con¬ 
temptuousness on a face as pure and guileless as 
that of Matsuo’s wife, it would have drawn deep 
indeed. Then she asked: 

453 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“And where are you—gardening—or acting as 
house servant-?” 

“That apprenticeship is over. I am at the Lega¬ 
tion.” 

“Why did you come?” 

“I came to discover for our country a person 
whom you may help me find. There are few Jap¬ 
anese in Italy, fewest in Rome. And it is a Jap¬ 
anese I am come to seek, an artist, a sculptor whose 
works are in the exhibitions everywhere but in 
Japan. 

Hana’s heart-throbs sounded in her breast like 
the melancholy drum-beat at the mouth of San 
Lorenzo. 

“Yes.” 

“The name is Passiflore. Beyond the name and 
that he is Japanese we know nothing else. The 
w r ork comes to the exhibitions like magic. For years 
no man in all Japan has done anything like it. It 
has the spirit of the Orient. But he is ours, and 
we must have him. France, England, America, 
Italy, have his work, yet they have not the right. 
In Tokio, the Brahmin temple needs this Passi¬ 
flore.” 

“What makes you think—he—is in Rome?” 

“I learned it in Paris. There, it appears he will 
not come. No one has ever seen him. But the 
sculpture comes from Rome. They told me that 
much.” 

Silence fell while the woman’s mind worked 

454 



HANA IS WATCHED 


swiftly. Other women had endured, including Hana. 
A little longer—it would not be much longer at 
best, and the anguish of keeping Passy hidden would 
be over. The Lady Diana’s sorrow had come to 
an end. Faith Desmond, whose martyred soul would 
one day reach its recompense, was still enduring. 

And Romilda del Monte- : Here faintness came 

upon her and she needed all her self-control. Again 
she visioned another thatch of snow-white hair, an¬ 
other pair of sunken eyes than Matsuo’s, another 

parchment face- Romilda may have endured, 

but to what purpose? 

Passiflore! Japan needed her, the Japan from 
which she had endured so long an exile. Had Hana 
the right to hold her back? At least there was 
this to weigh in the balance against the fact that 
Passy was a woman and a cripple, that Japan recog¬ 
nized her as a man! 

Matsuo was speaking. She had not heard, so he 
repeated his question: 

“Hana, how long have you been in Rome?” 

“Four years now.” 

“Always—a servant?” 

“Yes. But different from the others.” 

“How different?” 

“I keep house for my mistress. I am companion 
to those—young—who live there, too.” A motion 
of the hand towards the little house. 

“You do not regret?” 

Passiflore! Passiflore! 

455 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“No, Hana does not regret.” 

“Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” 

“In the years, the many years, you did not think 
to—marry—again? Ever?” 

“I am a Catholic. Married. Under God only 
death would leave me free had I the wish to marry.” 

She did not ask if the vow he had taken on so 
lightly for her sake made any difference in his life. 
What came must come of him. Passiflore! Passi- 
flore! He must never know.” 

“Catholic. Of the Dome. Even as Matsuo is 
Catholic—and of the Dome.” 

“It was not so in years past, Matsuo.” 

Again the man beat his breast and anguish showed 
in his face. 

“Not then. But our Christian God has ways of 
leading even a pagan up through Calvary to under¬ 
standing. I learned that Calvary stands for every 
age, all nations, each lonely, suffering soul.” 

Was this the man she had known? A suspi¬ 
cion perhaps unworthy, nevertheless a suspicion, 
flashed across her mind. He was still in the secret 
service. What was he trying to get from her? He 
would have tricked her once—long ago. How could 
she tell if he were indeed regenerate? 

“You are still in the service of our country. The 
one at the head, is he the same?” 

“Not the same. When I returned into Japan 
with the hope of finding you—I made confession. 

456 


HANA IS WATCHED 


I told all the story and was willing to be punished 
or resign. Forturo, the new chief, understood. He 
gave the others to understand. He is a man of 
great kindliness. And all, they helped me seek 
you. Hana, can you not believe? Will you not 
believe?” 

Tears in the eyes of Matsuo? It could not be 
possible. Yet, how could Hana know that the hol¬ 
low eyes had shed their tears by night through the 
long years? Tenderness stirred in her breast. His 
tears were like warm sunshine on the coldness of her 
heart. She wondered why he asked nothing about 
the child. He had told her he knew about the little 
shoe, but let the subject rest. 

“Suppose, Matsuo, since now they know, suppose 
there had been a child, what then?” 

“At night and through the empty days Matsuo 
has cried aloud to Heaven for that child.” 

“But suppose—she had been a woman-child, what 
then?” 

“Flower to your life and mine, oh, Hana. A 
girl-child would be as the sweetest blossom of our 
garden, companion to you, comfort to Matsuo in 
the old age that has come upon him long before 
his time, for grieving, Hana—all because of grief.” 

“Suppose that girl-child, for what Hana had suf¬ 
fered through Matsuo, suppose, she were not like to 
other children. Suppose the God Who loves her 
had seen fit to send her, crippled in body, bent, and 
so distorted that other children, and men and 

457 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


women, too, would turn in horror from the sight of 
her. Suppose all that?” 

“Even that. The girl-child would have had a 
soul.” 

“Suppose the soul that houses the girl-child’s mind 
and heart, and is unlike other children’s souls, were 
not what we would have it, you and I, what then?” 

He turned her round, and seized her by the wrists 
until he hurt her. With blinding tears streaming 
from his eyes, utterance difficult, breast that labored, 
he sobbed aloud: 

“Were she crippled and hopeless in body and 
mind—were she to be helpless and a burden all her 
life long—were she even such as I have seen, a 
breathing body only, with neither sense nor feeling, 
still she would be God’s and ours, with the right to 
our care and to our love. Oh, Hana, were she all 
these dreadful things she’d have the right no human 
being could take from her, of lifting a glorified 
new-born soul to Heaven, when her Maker in 
greater wisdom than we can understand, shall call 
her back to Paradise. That is how it is with the 
heart of Matsuo.” 

Then Hana smiled, while down the ivory of her 
cheeks fell tears that answered in their gentle way 
to his. 

“There was a girl-child, Matsuo, and a cripple. 
She came with a tiny broken body and a back that’s 
hunched and bent. But”—her voice grew strong, 
and her face illumined in its triumph—“the girl- 

458 


HANA IS WATCHED 


child has a mind and spirit beautiful as an Arch¬ 
angel’s—and hands that—why, Matsuo, look! look! 
I’m laughing now, and so will you, oh, love of my 
youth, and so will you! Our girl-child’s Passi- 
flore!” 



459 


CHAPTER XXX 


GROTTA FERRATA 

W HEN at last Hana turned the key in the door, 
the silvered sky was changing to miraculous 
grey-blue, then on to yellow-gold and day. The 
time that had been night, drifting up to dawn, had 
witnessed Hana and Matsuo talking wearilessly. 
Joan, frenzied, pallid, clung to her. 

“Little child, little child, everything is right.” 
But Joan had watched the long hours through sick 
at heart. She cried as she said: 

“I’ve been listening for you—all night.” 

“Foolish one, I promised it would be all right. 
Why did you listen?” 

“I was afraid something terrible might have hap¬ 
pened. Things do happen.” 

“They do,” laughed Hana under her breath. 
“Something has happened! I knew it! Why, 
Hana—you look somehow—glorified!” 

“I will tell you. Wait. Don’t move. Here at 
the top of the stairs I will tell you.” She flew to 
Joan’s room, where she gathered into her arms a 
great silk comforter and pillows, then back, and 
like a flash to the balcony, a surprised Joan in her 

460 



GROTTA FERRATA 


wake, who suddenly found herself ail wrapped up 
and on the chaise-longue, Hana beside her. With¬ 
out hesitation, without omitting a single detail, Hana 
told the story from beginning to end. 

“That’s all.” She bowed low with outstretched 
hands, for all the world like a tiny Madame Butter¬ 
fly on a paper fan. 

“Oh, I do thank God. I do thank Him. What 
shall we do to thank Him, Hana?” 

“We will try to do His will to thank Him. That 
is the best way. My Joan-” 

“Yes, Hana?” 

“What will Passiflore say?” 

“Oh, poor Passy. I forgot. She was worried 
to death when ten o’clock came last night. I sent 
her to bed, said I would wait up for you, that if 
you were late I’d see you and explain. Passy went 
off at five o’clock to Grotta Ferrata. Mother 
arranged last night about getting Incubo early when 
Passy told her plans. It’s a little mixed I know, 
but simple enough when you understand,” she an¬ 
swered Hana’s look of utter bewilderment. “Why 
should Passiflore drive out to Grotta Ferrata in the 
little coupe alone at that hour?” 

“It seems they were digging for water in the 
grounds of the White Nuns novitiate and came 
across a fountain that had been buried for cen¬ 
turies.” 

“The White Nuns? My Franciscan Missionaries 
of Mary?” 


461 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Yes, your own, Hana. Of course, it happened 
weeks ago, but they had to tell on account of some 
law about archaeology. The Academy people have 
been waiting for the fountain to be entirely 
uncovered, then more weeks for an opportunity to 
see it in the right light. The idea, Passy explained, 
was to catch the bas-reliefs as the sun touched them 
hour by hour, and the Director wanted her there to 
explain them to the other students. She’s the only 
one at the Academy besides the Director who 
knows their value of light and shade. He couldn’t 
be there for the whole day. They offered to take 
her out in the car, but she wanted to be alone and 
promised to come back with them. 

“Where will she get her lunch?” 

“The students were going to take theirs, and I 
wanted to put up Passy’s, but she wouldn’t let me. 
She said there was a house at the Grotta she had 
wanted to see for a long time, that while the others 
had their lunch the nuns would show it to her, and 
she could have her lunch in the convent, later.” 

“But she does not know them!” 

“I couldn’t say, Hana darling. She never spoke 
of them to me. When four o’clock came and I 
begged her to let me do what I could, she said no, 
it was all arranged. She would probably have from 
twelve to two free. 

“Twelve to two. I wonder if it could be done,” 
Hana mused. 

“What be done, Hana?” 

462 


GROTTA FERRATA 


“I told him—Matsuo—we would go to the 
Academy at one o’clock when my Passiflore is not 
at work. He has waited so long-” 

“Why not drive out to Grotta Ferrata? Incubo 
isn’t back, so you’d have to get another cab, but I 
know Mummie would be happy to send you. Let 
me fix it?” 

“No, child. Hana is going to tuck Joan up in 
her little bed. There has been too much anxiety 
and excitement. Besides Signora del Monte may 
need you.” 

Joan knew Romilda would not need her, but she 
blushed at the thought of what Hana really meant. 
Donald was coming and she must have her beauty 
sleep before she saw him. But Joan was not ready 
yet to see him; it was too soon after the horrors 
she had endured. So while she protested feebly 
against being carried off to bed at dawn, Hana had 
her way, and, when Joan awoke, well past noon, 
the sun was streaming through open windows, and 
a radiant Faith stood beside her. Meanwhile a lit¬ 
tle victoria with a strange driver went jogging into 
the picturesque hamlet of Grotta Ferrata. 

“I do not know just what direction to take, Mat¬ 
suo. Perhaps that peasant-” A suchari, atop 

a wine cart, waved greeting to the quaint couple in 
the fiacre. Matsuo held out his hand to stop him. 

“Can you direct us to the convent of White 
Nuns?” 

“White Nuns?” 


463 




THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“The Franciscan Missionaries of Mary they are 
called.” 

“Aiei! The Franciscan Missionaries.” The man 
beamed with pleasure. Evidently their good work 
was not unknown among the peasants. “At the foot 
of the first hill, turn to the right. Climb to the 
top of the second one. There you will find the 
gracious convent. Mille gracie, signora, signore.” 
He smiled again and cried, “Arrivederla! Arrive- 
derla!” and waved his hat in expression of grati¬ 
tude for the coppers Matsuo tossed him. He kept 
it up until they were out of sight. When they 
turned around the hill and drove between giant 
trees that led up to the glistening monastery, there 
rose to the heart of Matsuo an overwhelming sense 
of the providence of God. There came to him at 
the same time light that if one wait patiently the 
Master, the kind Master will show, even in 
“this place we call life,” the working of His divine 
hand. But of the action of Matsuo’s mind, Hana 
suspected nothing, knew nothing. It remained for 
time to reveal it. 

For her, she was glad in her simple way to see 
the novitiate of the Order that had saved her be¬ 
fore the birth of Passiflore. Indeed, it was to 
these same Franciscan Missionaries Passy owed her 
life, her talent, her power to be guiding star for 
generations to come. Hana shuddered at the 
thought of possibilities that would have withheld 
Passiflore’s genius from a world that needed it, 

464 


GROTTA FERRATA 


Passiflore’s soul from eternal happiness. To these 
same White Nuns she owed the joy Passy had been 
in her depleted life, to whom Matsuo would owe 
eternal gratitude. 

As they drew up before the gates Hana looked 
shyly at her husband. 

“They are kind people. They are the kindest 
in the world, though I do not know the ones who 
live in this house.” He smiled, but the smile was 
enigmatic and he did not answer. 

“It is the polite thing to ask first for the Superior, 
is it not?” 

“We will, my Hana. Some one should pre¬ 
pare Passiflore. It would not do for me to come 
upon her unannounced. You and I have lived 
through a lifetime in the last few hours. Passiflore 
does not even realize her father lives. I would not 
have her frightened.” 

“Some gentle thing has touched you, Matsuo, that 
you give consideration to the girl-child of our 
house,” said his wife timidly. 

“Some gentle thing!” Matsuo echoed. He 
studied Hana’s face while they waited at the door. 
What had kept her so young? Most Japanese 
women would have shrivelled like storm-beaten 
trees had they so suffered. Not Hana. Passiflore 
might have kept the flame of youth alive in her 
mother, or the joy of Matsuo’s return might have 
transformed her back to the flowering time of life, 
for she had blossomed to new freshness overnight. 

465 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


What wonder that the man marvelled, and marvel¬ 
ling, thanked God. 

A figure clad in spotlessness from the top of her 
graceful coif to the tip of her monastic shoes ap¬ 
peared in the open door, with a smile of welcome. 

“You must be Passiflore’s parents, are you not?” 

Hana laughed. “How did you know, Mother?” 

“I think you must be from the same country,” the 
portress laughed back. “Passiflore is spending the 
day here.” 

“Yes. We know. We will wait for her if it 
takes all afternoon. She must not be told we are 
here, just yet. The drive took less time than we 
thought. Perhaps we might see the Mother Su¬ 
perior?” 

“Yes, indeed; she will be delighted. Come with 
me to her parlor. You will not have to wait long.” 

She led them down the length of corridor to a 
room whose French windows opened out to the 
garden beyond. 

“It is pleasanter here than at Via Juisti. We get 
so little sun there. Here it floods everything.” 

“Via Juisti I do not know,” said Hana, “nor 
any of the White Nun’s houses outside of New 
York.” 

“No?” Mother Sanctuario opened her eyes to 
their widest. “That is odd, because Passiflore is 
with us constantly. She has often begged Reverend 
Mother to bring her to us here, but the hours are 
not convenient on account of her work. It is dif- 

466 


GROTTA FERRATA 


ferent today, for the Academy students all came 
out to see the new excavation. It is quite a distance 
off, down the hill. Would you like to see it?” 

‘"Another time we will come to see it,” Matsuo 
said. “Now, w r e will wait for the Reverend Mother. 
We might come unexpectedly on Passiflore if we 
were to go out, and that would not be wise.” 

“I understand, indeed I do. Now I will go for 
Mother Superior.” 

While they waited, Hana walked to the open 
windows, exclaiming at sight of the pergola laden 
with flowering vines and the shady terrace beyond. 
Matsuo glanced at the books that lay on a table. 
There was the life of the foundress, Helene Chap- 
potin de Neuville, better known as Mother Mary 
of the Passion; several volumes relating to martyrs 
of the Order who had gained their crown in China; 
an account of eight leper colonies entirely in charge 
of these selfless, courageous women, and lastly a 
stray volume out of a set that seemed to Matsuo 
most incongruous. Yet he took it up with a smile 
of recognition. He had found it before- 

“What is the book, Matsuo? You seem to know 
it.” 

“There are those who would call it coincidence. 
Yes, I know the book.” 

“What is it called?” 

“ ‘The Ten Great Religions.’ It is an iniquitous 
book.” 

“Why iniquitous, Matsuo?” 

467 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Untrue. Unfair.” He was about to ex¬ 
plain why he had found it so, when the Mother 
Superior came in, both hands outstretched in wel¬ 
come. 

“Can it be Matsuo Haionaka, here?” 

“Yes, Mother Agnelle. It is Matsuo.” 

“In Rome! You are greatly changed.” 

“I have suffered. But it was Reverend Mother 
herself who told me, ‘Joy cometh in the morning.’ 
Joy came—at last.” 

“Perhaps it was you who brought it,” she said to 
Hana. 

“My husband tells me so." Hana spoke with 
pride. She had come into her own. 

“Hana has grown young while I grew old, but 
now I think old age will pass and I will find at least 
a pleasant sunset,” said Matsuo. 

Mother Agnelle laughed as she answered: 

“Let us hope the twilight will be a long 
one,” then added: “Come out to the terrace. 
You must both be famished after your long 
drive.” 

Protesting at the trouble they were giving these 
daughters of Assizi's saint, they followed through 
the pergola to find a little table all set out, waiting 
for them. 

“I will sit beside you and serve you,” said the 
Superior, “and we can talk comfortably. There is 
so much to ask, so much to say. Tell me,” she 
continued as she poured into their glasses a clear 

468 


GROTTA FERRATA 


wine made from the grapes whose vines wreathed 
the terrace, “does your wife realize that you are 
an old friend of our house?” 

Hana stared as Matsuo answered: 

“I had started to tell her-” 

“And I came in?” 

“Yes. I had picked up the book—the very book 
that brought me back to the Church. Is it the 
same one?” 

“Not the same volume. I keep it for its fal¬ 
lacies,” she laughed. “Like you, it has led others 
to the truth. A sort of ‘Mammon of Iniquity!’ ” 

“You knew my Matsuo?” asked Hana, wonder¬ 
ing. “And he read a book you gave him, and it 
brought him back?” 

“God has strange ways of leading souls to Him¬ 
self. This book is crammed with false philosophy. 
Yet, it has been your husband’s lode-star. When 
he first came to our convent in Tokio where I was 
stationed, it was on a mission of charity for the 
Japanese government, with regard to the lepers. 
At that time, you will remember, Matsuo, your faith 
was hardly bone of your bone. Had he not come 
to us in the name of duty we would have been 
taboo. Is it not so?” 

“It is truth, Mother. I had been what I was only 
in name, for Hana. In the years she was lost to 
me, the religion meant nothing, except that Hana 
had loved it, and what she had loved, I respected. 
One day while I waited in the convent infirmary to 

469 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


see my man, I picked up this book. What I read 
made me very angry. It placed the Catholics with 
the Hindoos, saying that they sacrifice themselves 
rather for the sake of the sacrifice than for the 
sake of humanity. It had it in black and white, that 
they suffer self-immolation for the pain rather than 
for a cause. It is the Hindoo who makes a fetish 
of self-martyrdom, not the Catholic. It made me 
very angry, Hana. I remembered so much that had 
been in America, Pere Marquette and the early 
Jesuit martyrs. They gave their lives to make 
America. How can Americans be but what true 
Americans are, since their country is baptised in the 
blood of saints? I am ignorant of much concern¬ 
ing the Church, but this I would give my life for, 
that her martyrs shed their blood to save humanity, 
body and soul. You, Reverend Mother, your White 
Franciscans, risk your lives every hour to help the 
lepers, and that is not pleasant. And you have 
saved thousands of girl babies that are daily thrown 
away in China. We know how dangerous a work 
that is. Through this book that tells untruth I 
learned that wherever is suffering humanity, there 
stands the Catholic Church. Those who represent 
her are ready and glad to die if need be, if dying 
they may make humanity less suffering.” 

. “My Matsuo,” there were tears in Hana’s eyes, 
“this book did make you angry enough to study to 
prove it wrong?” 

“Yes.” 


470 


GROTTA FERRATA 


“You did at first resent the wrong because it was 
Hana’s religion it attacked?” 

“Yes.” 

“I know now what Lady Diana meant when she 
would speak of ‘things that seemed not good, yet 
turned to good . 1 The book is one, is it not so, 
Mother Agnelle?” 

“Perhaps that is why I keep it. An evil more 
subtle would do harm. Veneer of learning covering 
obvious falsity is its own boomerang.” 

“It disproves itself?” 

“Yes, stirs men to thinking. Once a man begins 
to think in all sincerity, he has found the entering 
wedge to truth, as you did, Matsuo.” 

They sat watching the play of light down the 
hill and across the valley, the collation being fin¬ 
ished and Mother Sanctuario having quietly re¬ 
moved the plates. Then the superior spoke of 
Passiflore and the great work she had been called 
upon to do for the Academy. 

“She has been called to do still greater by the 
Japanese government,” Matsuo said. 

“Tell me.” 

A strange expression came into Mother Agnelle’s 
face as he went on. All that the girl had said of 
her father was that she had not known him. And 
while she was in Japan, the question of his faith 
was the only one he had broached to her. That 
he had a wife somewhere in the world, she knew— 
but that was all, so Matsuo made his confession. 

471 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

It did not take long, but he spared himself nothing 
and while he stripped the soul that had been his 
to the depths, the wise nun read still deeper. She 
knew he might be called upon to make so great a 
sacrifice that it would place his living spirit among 
those who had agonized as martyrs for the cause 
of the Church. She knew, none better, that his sin 
might have damned that spirit had it not been for 
Hana’s prayers. But she knew, too, the renuncia¬ 
tion that such a man might make; he had the power 
to lift his soul to the very heights of Heaven. 

It was decided that Mother Agnelle should pre¬ 
pare Passiflore to meet her father. While the class 
packed up its drawing books and pencils and pre¬ 
pared to return to Rome by the same big diligence 
that had brought it out, the superior walked back 
up the hillside with the crippled girl along the vine- 
embowered way to the pergola. Hana and Matsuo 
had gone inside where they waited, breathless. 

And all the while Mother Agnelle talked and 
explained Passiflore answered never a word. The 
superior thought she might not realize the serious¬ 
ness of all she was being told, or realizing, she might 
have been indifferent, or else it had been a shock, 
and the shock had left her cold. When at last they 
reached the door Passiflore said: 

“Please let me rest a few moments on the 
terrace before I go in. The walk up the hill has 
made me very tired. I would like to be alone to 
rest.” 


472 


GROTTA FERRATA 


The Superior stooped and kissed her. Passi- 
flore’s forehead had grown icy cold, and there were 
drops of perspiration clinging to it. Mother 
Agnelle went on to the chapel while Passiflore, who 
after a second or two of prayer thought she had 
her forces under perfect control, entered through 
the wide French doors to where her parents waited. 

Without a word she put her arms about her mother 
and held her close. Then she said: “Pm glad it 
was here you found me, Mother of mine,” clinging 
to her and not turning to Matsuo. Then Hana 
ventured: 

“Your father has come back to us, heart of my 
heart. Will you not greet him?” 

“My father?” She drew herself up to her piti¬ 
ful height, heeding neither the man’s outstretched 
hand nor the tears that coursed down his haggard 
cheeks. 

Passiflore’s eyes had grown merciless and the 
ivory of her skin had turned a chalky white. 

“If you are my father, why did you not come 
before? My mother has been lonely.” 

She did not look at him when she spoke, but out 
to the sky where storm-clouds seemed gathering 
above the hilltops. If within his soul Matsuo an¬ 
swered, his lips were silent. The pitiless young eye9 
looked at him then, and the girl spoke directly to 
him. 

“My mother was afraid. It is a dreadful thing 
to frighten any one. She was afraid, oh, not for 

473 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


herself, but for me. I had not been wanted. Even 
had I been like other girls, straight and beautiful, 
I would neither have been wanted nor welcome.” 

“Passy! Passy!” 

Heedless, toneless, the accusing voice went on: 

“But I am not straight. I am as you see me. 
Are you shocked? Did mother tell you? Perhaps 
if I had been wanted and welcome and she had not 
been afraid, I would not have come to her like this. 
People who are strangers and who do not know, 
should be prepared before they are allowed to look 
at me, otherwise they will be horrified when they 
see me.” 

“My darling! My blossom! What is it that has 
come to you?” 

Then two red spots appeared on the white cheeks, 
and Passiflore beat with her two hands on the breast 
that was not like the breast of other girls. Matsuo’s 
spirit opened to the lash. 

“Mother of mine, do you think because I bore 
silently and did not speak, I did not feel? Do you 
suppose, the nights I have been late in coming home, 
it was because I strained my eyes into the dusk on 
work that should have been done only by sunlight? 
It was because I waited for the streets to empty 
before venturing out where people might see the 
kind of creature I am. Have I not shaded my eyes 
through the years to keep myself from seeing 
the look of terror on Italian faces as I passed them 
by? I know when they make horns behind my back, 

474 


GROTTA FERRATA 

and some of them do it before my face. Sometimes 
they laugh.” 

“Oh, Passy! Passy! Stop—I beg you!” 

“Do you not think it hurt to send my sculptured 
children nameless into the world? Had I been like 
other girls I would have carried them myself in 
triumph to London, Paris, the whole world over. 
Instead of that I hide, hide shame-faced in my cor¬ 
ner here for fear that if they saw what manner of 
thing had done the work, the work itself would be 
discredited.” 

“My love, my little love, you hurt me.” 

“I must say it out, sweet mother of my heart. It 
is not all bitter, but I think the pain will be less 
intense if I can only tell it—once. You see, I know, 
Oh, my mother, that you would have suffered more, 
if Passiflore, such as she is, had not come. For 
this, and for other reasons, many other reasons, I 
do thank God I was allowed to live. There have 
been times when I would have sung aloud for thank¬ 
fulness, and I have lifted up my voice, then—hush, 
for all that voice could do was to croak like some 
poor robin left shelterless in the rain. I would 
have danced like Joan and the others, but could only 
totter clumsily on unbalanced feet. Do you think 
that when I longed to run and play like other chil¬ 
dren and they fled from me in panic, I did not suf¬ 
fer?” 

She went on as if no power could stem the stream, 
nothing but the flood of tears that mercifully came 

475 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


at last, and finally, wearily sobbed itself out on the 
breast of the mother who had borne her. It was 
as though the pent-up emotion of years, the subcon¬ 
sciousness that had held her father responsible for 
what she was, the silent endurance of a lifetime, had 
broken through all bounds at being brought face 
to face with Matsuo. 

When finally she quieted down, Hana murmured 
in her ear what comfort she could give. 

“Listen to mother, my blossom, my beautiful one. 
In sorrow, in love, in longing, has your father come 
back to us. Last night I told him everything and 
knowing, he loves you tenderly. Let me tell you 
something of which you have never thought. Your 
father feels as I do, that had Passiflore been—dif¬ 
ferent—Hana would have long ago lost her to the 
great world beyond. In the world of art to which 
my Passy would have gone, there is no place for 
Hana. Oh, yes, my blossom. You may shake your 
head, but mothers know!” 

“Did my mother know it was so great suffering 
for Passiflore?” 

“Never, dear heart.” 

“I am glad. I suppose it had to come out at 
last. I did not even tell Joan nor Lady Diana. I 
said it was not all bitter. Now I will tell you why. 
One comforted me.” 

Matsuo drew nearer. One had comforted him, 
too. 

“He was straight, but they dressed Him like a 

476 


GROTTA FERRATA 

fool and mocked Him through the streets. When 
I would see the cringing people stare and lift their 
fingers at me, I thought of that and I was not 
alone. He walked with me through the crowded 
streets. They mocked us both, though He was 
King! At least no one I loved had robed me in 
the garment of a fool. And He loved them all, 
they were His own. When they shrank from me 
in horror He showed me that they shrink from 
Him, too. All who do any sin or wrong today, 
shrink from Him, their King, their Creator. All 
who say He is not God, shrink from Him. And 
today there are many, but there is a world to come 
in which all who have rejected Him will learn the 
truth. God pity them! Oh, in my sorrow I learned 
so much, so much. The garments that His mother 
had woven with such love and tenderness were filthy 
with the mud they threw at Him, and drenched with 
blood. At least my dress was clean, and no one I 
loved had beaten me out of the semblance of a 
human being. His face, the face that had smiled 
up at her from the crib of Bethlehem, was bruised 
and blackened and swollen. There was ‘no come¬ 
liness in Him.’ Yet He bore in silence. So I, the 
least of His little ones, bore in silence. The world 
was unfair and unjust to Him. It has been fair and 
just to me. He had been sent to Caiphas and Pilate. 
The judges who had judged my little work, were 
kind. His work was the work of God. How did 
the people pay Him? Pitilessly. He made the 

477 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


things a carpenter makes, chairs, and tables, and 
wheels perhaps for the simple carts of the Nazarites. 
They beat Him down and paid Him in pennies, 
and did not even save the work He did. But the 
Carpenter of Nazareth put it into my poor hands 
to make such carvings as have given me a name 
before His world, and I am well paid. Oh, He has 
been with me all along. And so, I thank Him for 
His gifts, and for letting me suffer even a little with 
Him. You see, Mother of my heart, I am com¬ 
forted.’ 

“Can you forgive— me?” 

Hana could only wonder at his humility, Matsuo, 
whose pride had well-nigh broken both of them. 

“He forgave. Why should I not forgive ?” This 
time she looked steadily into her father’s face, then 
went to him with outstretched hand. 

“He forgave because of love, my child.” 

“You are my father. Love does not come easily 
to Passiflore. But this do I feel. He loves you, 
and I will try to be like Him, in His own good time.” 

She was not to be forced into saying what she 
did not mean, this child of his, Matsuo saw it clearly. 
He would have to wait in patience. Well, then, he 
would wait. Suddenly Passiflore asked a question: 

“Why did you come to Rome?” 

When she learned the true reason and that the 
Japanese government had sent him out for no other 
object than to find her, she could hardly believe 
it. He spoke then of the work she had done for 

478 


GROTTA FERRATA 


other countries, other places. At last he told her 
about the statue for the Brahmin temple in Tokio. 

“You will come? You will accept?” It was an 
entreaty rather than a question. 

“What does my mother say?” 

“I would love to go back,” Hana answered wist¬ 
fully. Neither Passiflore nor Matsuo could tell that 
her heart was beating with the thrill of it when in 
her face they only read the quiescence they both 
knew so well. 

“To stay in Japan, always, mother mine?” 

“There are still my father’s gardens. There is 
all Japan, and the blessed Faith that might be taught 
as well as lived. I would go back—if you would 
come.” 

Then the girl turned to Matsuo. 

“My father”—the man’s heart leaped as day 
to sunshine—“you made a promise to the Govern¬ 
ment you would find Passiflore. Passiflore found, 
you assured the Government the required work 
would be done?” 

“I did make the promise.” 

“Suppose Passiflore were to do other work for 
Japan, far greater than merely a bronze or marble 
Sakya-Muni, would the Government be content to 
accept that and leave the carving for the Temple 
to some one else?” 

“Another would have to be found if that is Pas- 
siflore’s wish. I would not force my daughter. I 
would not be bound to keep the promise.” 

479 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“And suppose you were to take Passiflore with 
you to Japan, not as an artist. Suppose you were 
to take her merely as your daughter, such as she is, 
deformed, and show her to your people there, your 
Government, what then?” 

“As crown of my heart and of my life, as pride 
of my old age, would I take her. So only would I 
take my child, my daughter with me to the ends 
of the earth.” 

Out came the laughing sun to chase the storm- 
clouds back beyond the hills while they drove the 
long and happy way across from Grotta Ferrata to 
Ponte Squarciarelli, down past the sparkling waters 
of Tre Fontana and majestic San Paolo and to 
Rome! 

Welcome to a newer, fuller life, Hana. Welcome, 
Matsuo, made man in baptism of the cross, welcome, 
a thousand times welcome, Passiflore, whom faith 
courageous brought into the world, proof indom¬ 
itable that man, small, arrogant, opinionated, stands 
little chance against the might and the mercy of 
omnipotent Godl 


480 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE MASTERPIECE 

L onely, Joan?” 

“Never with you. What makes you ask?” 
“I was afraid you might miss Via Margutta and 
Romilda and the others.” 

“I wouldn’t take Romilda away from her work 
at Santo Spirito for anything. The sick ones need 
her frightfully now, especially the children. She 
seems to be a second Saint Frances of Rome—so 
charitable, Mummie.” 

“She’s a great soul.” 

“Why do you suppose she gave away her things?” 
“You mean that beautiful room of del Monte’s?” 
“Yes, that and the rest. There wasn’t much 
more. Surely she’s not going to spend her whole 
life nursing the poor? She ought to have kept 
something for herself I think, when she is tired of 
it all.” 

“Not Romilda. She told me—after she and I 
were left alone that dreadful day we took del Monte 
out to San Lorenzo.” 

“It was only last Saturday, mother. It seems 
a century.” 


481 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Yes, doesn’t it? There were no new plans to 
be made, she said. She had always expected to give 
what she had to the Celio, the Blue Nuns. 
She wanted to fit out a room for poor gentle peo¬ 
ple there. She preferred to live with them and go 
out to her nursing at Santo Spirito. No, she would 
not paint again. She wanted to get away from 
everything connected with the past few years and 
start all over.” 

“I wish she could have gone to America with 
Donald.” 

“Perhaps Donald is why she did not go.” 

“Oh, Mummie, it was all so unfair, that bit! And 
I was in it, too!” 

“Never mind, darling.” Faith laughed at the 
discomfiture in Joan’s face. “The one who made 
the trouble is having his punishment.” 

“Berinari?” 

“Yes. He’s gone to Monte Carlo with the radi¬ 
cals!” 

“Not the Olga trio?” 

“The same!” 

“Oh, Mummie! how funny! Perhaps he’ll marry 
one of them.” 

“Just Nemesis. Patienza! Whatever happens 
is certain to reach us sooner or later.” 

“Sieves, Mummie. Four sieves. The news of 
what they’re doing will leak through. Will they 
make a fortune, do you think? People do sometimes, 
don’t they?” 


482 


THE MASTERPIECE 


“Well, my lamb, they’ll have to make it or run 
away. None of the three we know can afford to 
lose anything and as to Count Berinari, who can 
tell?” 

“Well, I know that while they last they’ll make 
things hum. Mummie-” 

“What is it, dear?” 

“I’ve been something of an idiot.” 

“Don’t call yourself names. Why?” 

“Why should I have gone to Aunt Di for com¬ 
fort, and Romilda, when all the time you’d have 
been the one to help me most?” 

“Perhaps mothers seem too old and far away. 
Perhaps we care so intensely we are apt to be criti¬ 
cal, don’t put ourselves in the daughter’s place. Oh, 
there are a thousand reasons. One thinks there’s 
more sympathy outside, when our poor hearts are 
fairly aching with fellow-feeling.” 

“My mother will never be old. I ought to have 
realized that. At the time I felt so ashamed. I 
wanted to get away from every one that knew.” 

“That’s why I let you go. I knew so well. And 
still, Joan, the thing that happened was to have 
been. Before I came away, Uncle Michael told 
me all about his hope of what the dream might 
be to you. And it has been what he wanted, a safe¬ 
guard. But neither he nor I ever thought you’d 
suffer as you did.” 

“Romilda says it’s my artistic temperament.” 

At that Faith laughed out. 

4 8 3 



THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“What is there funny in that, Mummie mine?” 

“Proof of what I just said. Romilda could tell 
you it’s the artistic temperament, which it is. Moth¬ 
ers can’t say that, however they may know it.” 
Then Joan laughed with her and answered: 

“Analyst! Hereafter I shall put all my heart’s 
burdens on you and refuse to carry them myself. 
By the way, Mummie, when’s Uncle Michael com- 
ing?” 

“The last letter said about the middle of May. 
It will have given Donald a chance to do what was 
to be done in New York. You knew Uncle Michael 
had put the great lanterns in the Saint Louis Cathe¬ 
dral, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, I knew he had them to do. Will he have 
quite finished there?” 

“Quite. He would not come till they were in 
place.” 

“I’ve been wondering something.” 

“Tell mother. You said you would if it were a 
trouble.” 

“Well, it’s not exactly a trouble, but frightfully 
personal. You won’t mind?” 

“I won’t mind anything you ask, child.” 

“It’s about Uncle Michael. I know he—loved 
you long ago—before Daddy-” 

“What makes you think that?” Joan could not 
tell whether the red line of the sun touched her 
mother’s cheeks just then, or something from within. 

“I used to hear them at Aunt Hilda’s long ago. 

484 



THE MASTERPIECE 

I asked Aunt Diana if it were true and she said 
it was.” 

“So long ago, beloved, so long that Uncle Michael 
has quite forgotten.” 

“But he is young. And you—are young.” 

Faith rose suddenly and stood with her back to 
Joan, one hand resting on the balcony now bathed 
in April sunset, the other held tightly to the heart 
that would never cease to ache for him who had 
been everything. 

“Mother is married to your father.” 

“But, Mummie—Daddy is dead!” 

“Is he? I wonder.” 

“Why, mother!” Joan pulled herself up out of 
the long chair and went to stand where she could 
see her mother’s face. 

“I was afraid you might. Other people do.” 

“Sometimes they do.” 

“Not—Mummie ?” 

“No. Not I.” 

“You don’t love Uncle Michael, then?” 

“No more than he loves me, which is not at all.” 

“Not at all? He sends you his dear love in 
every letter.” 

“So do Bobby Van Alstyne and Larry Minton, 
and your Aunt Diana and Kathleen. It’s all the 
same.” 

“Just like that?” 

“Just like that.” 

The girl exhaled a deep breath. 

485 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“Oh, I am relieved,” she said. “I’ve been afraid 
of it.” 

Then Faith turned, put her two hands on Joan’s 
shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. 

“Listen, child of mine. Often people marry 
again. Sometimes because they are lonely, some¬ 
times—I hate to say it, but it is true of the 
world, because of what they will gain—and some¬ 
times, because they fall in love. Oh, there are many 
reasons why they do. But you see it’s quite differ¬ 
ent with Mummie. I’ve kept your father in my 
heart, a living personality. I know he’s waiting for 
me—just as I know he helps me. Why, Joan dear, 
I never do a thing of any consequence without say¬ 
ing to myself, ‘What would you do about it, Jack?’ 
I put myself in his place and try to see it from his 
point of view. Loving him as I always will, know¬ 
ing it is only my blind open eyes that keep me from 
seeing him and God and all that is Heaven, it would 
be desecration to put any other man in his place.” 

For a long time, Joan sat thinking of what she 
said, then asked: 

“But what about Uncle Michael? Surely he 
will marry again.” 

“Why not? He should. Men like Uncle Michael 
need some one to take care of them, to fill their 
lives. I hope he will marry again, but not your 
mother.” 

“Your name ought to have been Faithful, Mum¬ 
mie, instead of just Faith.” 

486 



THE MASTERPIECE 


“Perhaps if I had been born in New England 
instead of New York, it would have been,” re¬ 
torted her mother. 

“Do you think Romilda would marry again?” 

“It seems to me she should.” 

“But she loved del Monte.” 

“She did, indeed.” 

“Is there any difference?” 

“Every difference. They never knew the joyous¬ 
ness of companionship or comradeship. Their 
poor little marriage was, after all, hardly a mar¬ 
riage. It was a living martyrdom for Romilda and 
for him—oblivion.” 

“I suppose she just went through the ceremony to 
give him a sort of peace when she thought he was 
going to die right away.” 

“Just that. She did not even dare use his name 
till after his death, for fear his family might destroy 
whatever peace she had been able to build up about 
them at sacrifice of herself.” 

“Poor thing. Oh!” as Hana appeared with the 
radiant smile that had become part of her. “What 
is it, Hana?” 

“Two things. This telegram”—she handed it 
to Faith—“and Passy sends a message.” 

“The telegram may wait. The message, 
Hana?” 

“Say that tomorrow morning at ten o’clock Pas- 
siflore will hold a private view for those most dear 
to her.” 


487 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


“It’s finished?” asked Joan excitedly. 

“Joan, Joan, you knew it all the time! You’ve 
worked beside her every day, how could you keep 
the secret?” asked her mother. 

“No. I’ve not seen it. I promised Passiflore I 
would not look, and I didn’t. Oh, it wasn’t hard 
The more she sculpted, the more I painted. I’ve got 
a surprise, too. My picture is done and I will show 
it when Passy shows her masterpiece. There! Now 
what’s the telegram?” 

“Epidemic of flu broken out among children at the Celio. 
Unless wanted on private cases will remain here. Keep Joan 
away from crowds. Romilda.” 

“Mummie, I’ll take her place at the Santo Spirito. 
Maybe they’ll give me a course in nursing. May I?” 

“You shall stay at home and take care of your 
mother, precious. A summer epidemic of any kind 
in Rome is no joke. I hope it will all be over by 
the time Michael gets here.” 

“The middle of May! When will that be?” 

“In three weeks, foolish child.” 

“Oh, it will all be over by that time. Hana, 
will your husband be at Passy’s private view?” 

“Yes. He is free to come and go as he chooses 
from the legation.” 

“You’ve not made any plans yet?” 

“Not yet. It is Passiflore w T ho makes the plans 
now,” laughed Hana. 

“But you do expect to go to Japan?” 

488 


THE MASTERPIECE 


“Oh, yes. But Passy is the one to say when we 
shall go and she is not yet ready.” 

“Then come and sit with us and watch the stars 
come out.” 

“I have watched the stars at night for many 
years,” said Hana, “but they will be brighter at 
ten o’clock tomorrow morning than before.” She 
laughed again. Life for Hana had become a most 
delicious joke. 

Passiflore had arranged the chairs like the orches¬ 
tra circle of a theatre. Though only four were 
essential, she had drawn them up in a semi-circle 
about the shrouded figures on the dais. 

“It seems more important,” she said, as they 
took their places. 

“Before I uncover it,” she went on, “I want to 
tell a story, make a speech. I will never make a 
speech in public. But this is not public and Passi- 
llore has much that she would say.” 

She had placed an ancient faldstool on the dais 
and sat on it, raised above their level. 

“Into my heart long ago was born a strange 
love. It took it some time to grow, for it was love 
of a thing I did not know. Now every form of 
love calls our best service into being. How to serve 
my love? One day my mother all unconsciously 
opened up the way, and showed me how, and where 
to serve it, but not when. 

“I studied every way, every path, and I can say 

489 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


that as I studied with all my heart and will, God 
led me. At last I saw. I wanted to serve my love 
with the best that is in me. 

“Out beyond the great Pacific ocean lies a land 
that has given three of us who are here this morning, 
to the world of life, Japan. It is Japan who is 
my love and her would I serve.” 

There was a little gasp. Matsuo’s hand groped 
for Hana’s, and held it while Passiflore continued: 

“God gave His instrument a gift. Passiflore 
has had success, not of herself, but with His gift. 
And now she wants to use it for her love. In the 
Japan that gave us to the world are many children. 
Along the path God’s gift has made beautiful for 
Passiflore, there would she lead them. That’s 
all my speech, beloveds. Now, Joan, one, two, 
three!” 

Joan lifted the wet sheet that covered what Pas¬ 
siflore had wrought. 

The strength of it! The master-hand! 

Life-size, ankles bound by chains to the gods of 
ancient superstition, rose the figure of young Japan, 
the glory of freedom in his face. Another figure 
stooped over him and with her two hands broke 
the chains apart. Passiflore’s perfection of detail 
in the modelling of the White Franciscan’s habit was 
unsurpassed. There was the coif, the knotted cord, 
the great round beads, the cross, the image of our 
Lord- 

No one could have dreamed it was a woman’s 

490 



THE MASTERPIECE 


work, far less the work of such a one as Passiflore. 
The very touch showed inspiration. 

“Look, Matsuo mine. See her signature, her pas¬ 
sion-flower !” 

She had twined it about the foot of the crucifix. 
Matsuo bent his head. 

“I’d seen the passion-flower when the sheet fell,” 
he said. Then Passiflore knew he had recognized 
the face beneath the coif. 

They looked at it in silence, while Passy watched 
each one in turn. 

“You like it? You like it?” 

For answer Hana rose and kissed her. 

“What have you called it?’’ asked her father. 

“I’d never thought to name it.” 

“Then I will name it.” 

“Do, oh, my father. Do!” 

“The sacrifice of atonement.” 

“But my father, it is no sacrifice for Passi¬ 
flore ?” 

“It is Matsuo’s sacrifice. Let it be called so.” 

Only then Hana read in the group what her hus¬ 
band had seen at first. 

“Passy, Passy, you would do this thing for the 
Japan you have never known?’’ 

“For the Japanese. For our people I would go, 
mother mine.” 

“Mummie,’’ whispered Joan, “my finished pic¬ 
ture must wait; I can’t show it now.” They slipped 
quietly out of the room, leaving the three alone. 

491 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


Then for the first time Passiflore knelt before her 
father, head bowed on outstretched hands. 

“Not to me, my daughter. Submission is to a 
higher Power. Go pray to that Power now and 
beg that Matsuo may never fail It.” So she found 
Joan with her mother on the balcony, and together 
they crossed to the Trinita, climbed the stairs to 
Mater’s chapel, and poured out all their prayer 
of thanksgiving and petition at her feet. 

Towards noon when it was time for Matsuo to 
report at his legation, Hana accompanied him as 
far as the door. He turned to her with unusual 
diffidence. 

“When we shall have gone back to our country, 
Passiflore’s new love, and when we shall have built 
the house that is to be ours as long as the highest 
Power shall decree—need that house be always 
silent, always empty save for you and me, my 
Hana?” 

Then with the radiant look that had become so 
much a part of her, Hana answered: 

“Why should it be, Matsuo mine? Why should 
it be? We’re going home, and Hana is not yet 
thirty-six years old!” 


492 



CHAPTER XXXII 


THE WEAVING 

S HIPS and cargoes sailed back and forth while 
life went on and living, and life that is not 
living. Death came, and dying, and death that is 
never dying, while the sun rose and set, the moon 
increased and waned, and days and weeks drifted 
through their destiny into Eternity. 

Then dawned the fifteenth day of May. 
“Mummie, will he find me changed?” 

“Who, sweetheart?” 

“Uncle Michael.” 

Faith wondered if Joan were so unspoiled as 
not to realize what the years had done to her. 

“I think he will. You’ve grown up.” 

“Some people grow up without changing. I don’t 
feel a bit grown up. Never less so than this morn¬ 
ing. I’m so excited waiting I can hardly stand it. 
Do I look much older?” 

“Let me see. Stand over there with your face 
to the light.” It amused Faith to see Joan’s utter 
unconsciousness of her loveliness. 

“No. Not much older, only developed as flowers 

493 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


develop. Trees need time to make them symmetri¬ 
cal, don’t they? Time never stands still.” 

“Do you wish it would, ever?” 

“Not I,” answered Faith. “Time is full of sur¬ 
prises and life fairly saturated with adventure.” 

“But there’s an end, Mummie, and that’s sad.” 

“Is it? With Daddy and Mickey at the top of 
the road? Not sad, Joan. The only sadness I 
know is the sadness that would keep me away from 
them then-” 

“What’s that? What could ever keep you away 
from them?” 

“Not to do what is right.” 

“In plain English, sin, is that it, angel Mummie?” 
laughed Joan. 

“Yes, why are you laughing? It’s serious.” 

“It might be serious if I didn’t know you so well 
—but I can’t imagine you anything but what you are, 
and if you were, you’d be funny!” 

“Don’t be silly, Joan. None of us are safe until 
we’re tucked away out of harm at last. Keep at 
your painting. It’s an outlet and a safeguard. Now 
that the Salon has taken your ‘Campagna,’ what are 
you going to do?” 

“A portrait.” 

“Whose?” 

“Romilda’s. I want her in uniform with one 
or two of the Celio children.” 

“Can she give you the time?” 

“Not Romilda. I’m going to prove Tacconata’s 

494 



THE WEAVING 


theory of painting what I see in my mind, not what 
I see with my eyes. That picture of the campagna 
was an experience.” 

“I know, dear heart. It was experience that made 
the great masters. So whatever the adventure of 
your life, use it.” 

“Is it experience that makes our Italy so beau¬ 
tiful?” 

“Certainly, the experience of centuries. Perhaps 
when America has lived as long, she'll be as beau¬ 
tiful.” 

“Some people think she is now, Mummie.” 

“Fresh, not mellowed. She needs age—to have 
lived—and more.” 

“I believe that when she shall have had her 
Michael Angelos, her Raphaels—oh, I can say it 
now, I’m quite immune—even her Passiflores, Eu¬ 
rope will pale before her. She will have had to 
suffer more, I think.” 

“So she will. But she needs fewer politicians 
and more-” 

“Candlestick-makers,” put in Joan. 

“Just that. More soul, less reform. One does 
not reform by removing temptation. One first 
teaches the meaning of strong character to resist. 
Education is reality; how to study, how to think. 
The basis of good taste is upheld by the fine arts. 
There must be more attention given there. A na¬ 
tion must be shown how to produce, so that the 
country as well as the individual will reap the re- 

495 






THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


ward of production. Give us a greater number of 
idealists, fewer materialists, and with the physical 
beauty with which God has endowed her, America 
will stand far and away first among the nations of 
the world.” 

“Hear! Hear!” cried Joan and clapped her 
hands. Then sound of the bell echoed through the 
house. Joan stood rooted to the floor of the bal¬ 
cony, but her mother followed Hana’s successor, a 
little Italian maid whom she had trained, to the 
door. 

“Why, Donald—where is Michael?” 

“Flu. Isn’t it beastly? We’d hardly landed. He 
positively refused to stay in Naples, so I managed 
to get him here. I left him in bed at the Bristol, 
and ran down to let you know we’d come and ask 
what to do about a nurse. The doctor at the hotel 
is with him, but tells me there’s not a nurse to be 
had in all Rome. I’m rather up against it, as the 
chief’s about delirious.” 

“Come upstairs. We’ll call the Celio. They 

usually have some one. Joan’s on the balcony-” 

But Joan, who had hung for a brief moment over 
the banister, was already at the telephone. 

“San Stephano, 463. Yes. Yes—hurry, please.” 

“Con chi parlof Pronto. Pronto.” A wait, in¬ 
terminable. 

“Oh, heavens, give me San Stephano, 463.” 

Excited talking back and forth, endless delay, and 
at last the convent. 


496 



THE WEAVING 


“I want Signora del Monte, Romilda del Monte, 
at once, please. It is most important/’ 

“This is Romilda. Who wants me?” 

“Oh, I didn’t know your voice. This is Joan. 
What are we going to do? Donald is here, and 
Uncle Michael’s at the Bristol with the flu and no 
nurse, and the doctor says he’s delirious and has to 
have a nurse, and there isn’t one to be had, so 
Donald says. Can you send a Blue Nun?” 

“I’m afraid not. The hospital’s full up. Hold 
the line. I don’t dare let you off for fear of not 
getting you quickly. I’ll see at once.” 

“Righto. Waiting!” 

But some one cut into the line, and Romilda had 
an exasperating time to get Joan back. 

“Not a nun or a nurse free to go. But if one 
is really needed, I will come. Ask your mother.” 

“Thank God you can make it. Don’t bother 
about Mummie. I heard her talking to Donald. 
No, I’ve not seen him. I’ve heard him. Incubo 
will fetch you at once. He’s at the door. Get your 
things ready. I’ll drive out for you.” 

It was a bewildered Donald Kaye who found 
himself seated in the small victoria, an erstwhile 
frigid Joan beside him, urging the driver to go 
faster and faster, while Faith stood gasping in the 
doorway of her house. 

When the original nightmare, dragging an ex¬ 
cited driver and two young people to all appearances 
out of their minds, turned out of Via Georgiana on 

497 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


one wheel, into and around the corner of Capo le 
Cave, Faith went inside, put on her hat and walked 
to Piazza Barberini. 

At the Bristol she found Michael as ill as Don¬ 
ald had said and the doctor frantic because the 
sick man could not be left alone, and there was 
apparently no hope of getting a nurse. When Faith 
told him what had been done, he wrung her hand 
in gratitude. 

“I know Signora del Monte well. She is one of 
the most reliable nurses at Santo Spirito, where I 
am consulting physician. We lost her when the 
epidemic broke out, but unless we had lost her there 
we might not have found her at the Celio, so it 
turns out well for the friend of Mrs. Desmond. Is 
it not so?” 

Meanwhile the few square inches of carriage 
on its way at top speed to San Stephano Rotondo, 
became to Donald and Joan the core and centre 
of the Universe. By the time they had reached the 
Foro Romano, Incubo perforce was obliged to stop 
and get her breath. She was no longer as young 
as when she first entered the service of the yellow¬ 
ing house on the Pincio. 

Suddenly after a volume of nervous chatter Joan 
realized she had come to the end of all she had to 
say. Donald, stifling a mad impulse to burst into 
uncontrollable laughter, finally spoke: 

“It’s awfullv good of you to take so much trou¬ 
ble.” 


498 


THE WEAVING 


“It’s for him, Uncle Michael. I don’t know if 
you know or not, but I’ve treated him outrageously. 
Must make some kind of amends, now.” 

“He doesn’t feel that.” 

“I do. And I’ve not been so awfully nice to you, 
either. Please forgive me.” It was the Joan he had 
known, speaking seriously. All nervous desire to 
laugh left him. 

“There was a great deal about it that was stupid,” 
said Donald. 

“There was far more that was noble.” 

“I know. You would see that. She really was, 
Romilda, magnificent. She had adored Raphaello. 
I was in it from the start. I’ve never seen greater 
disinterestedness.” 

Up started Incubo, breathing easily now, but with 
accustomed gait. No amount of coaxing could force 
her to increase her speed. Whether or no a psycho¬ 
logical process had taken place between the mind 
of beast and man is uncertain, but somehow with 
Incubo’s leisurely procedure, the exaggerated need 
of haste had passed. Joan and Donald smiled at 
each other and down at Incubo, then Joan asked: 

“How were you so much—in it?” 

“At Oxford. He was among the Romans who 
came. That was why he went in with the British 
when he did. He was in love with her even then. 
No other man had any chance. If you had known 
him as he was you would have seen why.” 

“What was the trouble with their families?” 

499 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 

“An ancient feud. Those things do exist, I be¬ 
lieve, even today—in Italy. The del Monte’s had 
no hearts. They loved themselves and their own 
will. Raphaello was different. He only loved 
Romilda.” 

Now they were jogging past the Coliseum. 

“Have you ever thought of the stories they could 
tell? The bricks, and stones?” 

“Indeed, I have. Rome’s always been the same, 
hasn’t it? What a chance they had!” 

“Who had? When?” 

“The early Christians. I always think of them 
when I pass the Coliseum. There was love, sacri¬ 
fice, devotion. Romans may be the same, but today 
is pretty tame.” 

“It really isn’t, you know.” Tame? Nothing 
could be tame, thought Donald, not with Joan at 
his side. 

“Oh, but it is, all unadventuresome.” 

“I wonder. Here’s Crighton, come to do a great 
work, carrying out of ancient Rome a gift to new 
America. He’s stricken powerless at the outset. 
Then you, you whose life has been quicksilver, in¬ 
spiration and achievement, with a spirit that has 
dreamed its way through an uplifting philosophy to 
reality! What do you do for him? You rush off 
to find help for him, and the help you find is 
a woman made of the same stuff as the early Chris¬ 
tian martyrs. Oh, no! Life’s not unadventure¬ 
some.” 


500 


THE WEAVING 


“You’ve left yourself out of the story.” There 
was a teasing look in Joan’s eyes as she said it. 

“Have I? Let me tell you where I come in.” 
Then Joan in a panic went back to her argument for 
fear of what his “coming in” might mean. 

“P’raps not as much unadventuresome as made 
to order. I’ve been thinking of Graziella’s affair, 
and Tacconata, and how she got to be a duchess 
just because she knew if she waited long enough 
she would catch him on the rebound. Ugh! It 
hurts.” 

Slowly into Via Claudia and close to Monte Celio 
and San Stephano Rotondo, too close for Donald 
and Joan who would not have cared had Incubo 
come again to a dead halt. 

“It would hurt. But you—are of different fibre. 
I hope I am, too. Our Rome is full of Graziellas, 
you know.” 

When all too soon they drew up at the door of 
the hospital, Romilda, uniform covered over with 
an all-enveloping blue cape, was waiting. Before 
Donald had time to jump down from the hesitat¬ 
ing cab, she had run out to meet them. Then 
through intricate and winding ways known only 
to the driver, they made their way back, Joan 
chattering all the time. If Romilda smiled within 
herself, knowing how it was with these two, they 
never even suspected. 

“What a varied existence you are leading, Don¬ 
ald,” she said when Joan stopped to breathe. “It’s 

501 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


not what you expected to find w r hen you came back 
to Rome at first, is it?” 

“Joan has been trying to persuade me life has no 
adventure in comparison with the thrill of early 
Christian days.” 

“Only watch the weaving, Joan, watch carefully 
and you’ll see for yourself.” 

“The weaving?” 

“Warp and woof; life in the making, in the liv¬ 
ing, the eternal fitting in of experience. Oh, when 
you begin to see the working of the Infinite, even an 
ordinary every-day existence becomes so full of 
charm one wonders why one never saw before.” 

Romilda’s eyes seemed to catch fire at the thought, 
and beneath the covering cloak she clasped her two 
hands over a heart that had known heights and 
depths. ' 

“How can you see it?” 

“Go back over the years. It grows very clear 
if you can remember.” 

Donald held his peace. They were perilously 
near the shoal. Had it been anyone but Romilda, 
he would have steered both to another channel, but 
Romilda knew. That made a difference. 

“I chased a will-o’-the-wisp. What then?” Joan 
asked. 

“Where did it lead?” 

“Into impossibility.” 

“What happened?” 

“Why, you know what happened.” 

502 


THE WEAVING 


“I’m showing you the warp. We re just follow¬ 
ing the thread.” 

“Disillusion then, and heartbreak.” 

“Rebellion?” 

“Not at first. There was just emptiness at first.” 

“Then entered the seven devils.” 

“I see what you mean. Rebellion did come then.” 

“Rebellion and your first glimpse of the duskier 
side of human existence.” 

“I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been desper¬ 
ate.” 

“Certainly not, and that was what caused the re¬ 
action. But out of it all came understanding—and 
vision. One of the ‘things that seemed not good, 
yet turned to good.’ ” 

“Mother would have said that. All the unhappi¬ 
ness died, every bit. Uncle Michael knew what the 
weaving meant. All I want now is for him to get 
well so that I can tell him something.” 

“If I am to nurse him I’ll have a hand in getting 
him well.” 

“I think I’d like him to know the will-o’-the-wisp 
he raised up for me out of dreams was part of his 
candlestick-making.” 

“Will I tell him that?” 

“Yes. He will understand. He’s like you in that. 
He understands everything.” 

But there was someone else who knew the story 
and who understood. If Donald’s gaze were fixed 
intently on the changing guard at the Quirinal gate 

503 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


just that moment, it was because he could have 
told Joan why she blushed. He could have told her 
too, that his own heart beat in time with hers and 
that Michael’s dream had come true at last. 

“Long ago,” Romilda went on, “I learned to 
watch the weaving. It made everything easier. It’s 
rather beautiful to realize as you go along doing 
what seem to be ordinary things, that all the while 
God’s hand is guiding. To see His love at every 
step, to watch His very fatherliness, to bear one’s 
little portion of His cross, knowing that He bore it 
first for us, being able to thank Him for suffering as 
well as for happiness, to visualize the unfolding of 
His plan as one’s own life goes on, oh, that’s the 
adventure that sweeps you ahead full of hope and 
fuller still of confidence. You’ll see. Just wait— 
and watch.” 

“I’ve begun to see already,” said Joan, but Don¬ 
ald answered the look in Romilda’s eyes rather 
than her words: 

“It began the day I stood on Michael Crighton’s 
steps, and you stood with the dead parrot in your 
arms.” 

Then Romilda cried: 

“Please, children, please—here we are. You 
shall finish the discussion afterwards—alone!” 

Faith was waiting for them in the hall. “Thank 
God you’ve come. He seems to wander at times. 
The doctor is with him now. You had better come 
up at once.” 


504 


THE WEAVING 


“May I go, Mummie?” 

“Whatever the nurse says. It’s Romilda’s case 
now, precious.’’ 

“I think she might. He would want to know she 
had been among the first. Only for a moment, 
though, dear.” 

“I’ll be good.” 

But it was hard to be good when she saw him 
lying helpless, Uncle Michael, the embodiment of 
strength. She wanted to throw herself on her knees 
beside him, tell him she was sorry for the years of 
misunderstanding, sorry for the curt, cruel letters 
she had written at first, and then for no letters at 
all, though he had written faithfully. She wanted 
to thank him for the dreams he’d put into her life, 
for the care he had had of her childish heart. She 
wanted to tell him he had been right, after all, 
that now she knew—but she could only look down 
with streaming eyes and a choking throb in her 
throat. 

Finally she asked the doctor. 

“May I hold his hand?” 

The doctor nodded. She knelt and took his hand 
in hers, the hand that after all had done so much 
to make her what she was. Then Michael opened 
his eyes. 

“Joan, thank God!” And Joan in her eager way, 
forgetting all the bitterness that had been, held his 
dear hand close to her cheek and said: 

“You’ll get well now, Uncle Michael, you must 

505 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


get well, for Donald and I have brought her to take 
care of you.” 

“Brought who?” 

“Why, Romilda, of course.” 

“Nonsense, dear, you know she never was.” 

“Oh, but she is. Here,” and she pulled Romilda 
closer so that Michael could see for himself. The 
veil of unreality that had bothered him, fell once 
more about him. 

“I suppose Raphael insisted on your coming. 
I’ve noticed that sooner or later, if one is only pa¬ 
tient, dreams do come true. But there’s one thing 
needed. They’ve got to be dreamed in the crucible 
that’s a—the crucible that’s a—I can’t find the 
word-” 

“Don’t bother to look for it, Mr. Crighton. You 
mean chalice.” 

Joan had risen and was crying on her mother’s 
shoulder, but Romilda, whose place was with the 
sick, had knelt beside him. 

“Of course I do. All dreams come true if only 
—they—are—dreamed in the—crucible that’s—a— 
chalice-” echoed Michael. 

Then he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep. 


506 




CHAPTER XXXIII 


WHEN ALL THE CANDLES ARE LIGHTED 

“Tokio, All Saints Day, 19— 

“Joan My Joan: 

“What do you think? Oh, what do you think? The 
Lady Diana has come! I can hardly believe it even yet. 
She is here, and Sir Lawrence and a very little Larry and 
a tiny one too little for a name, called Mary, just that, 
Mary. Why have they come? That’s tho most wonderful 
part of all. Let me tell you in my own way, for there is 
so much—so much. I’m certain some of our letters have 
been lost, for in your last one you refer to things of which 
I’ve never heard and ask me questions about much of which 
I had already written. Pray God this one will reach you, 
though truly you are never far away. You see, I carry you 
in my heart, such a happy, happy heart. 

“Happy as mine, Donald?” 

“Happy indeed if it’s half as happy as ours, Joan.” 

“Shall I read on?” 

“All of it. It’s Passiflore’s self.” 

“Our rule of holy poverty will never allow me enough 
paper to tell you all there is. I know what I’ll do. I will 
make an act of humility and ask the treasurer for more. 
They never refuse me anything, the angels! I’d like to 
begin with the coming of Lady Diana, but must go further 
back, all the way to my prise d’habit, for I have the dear 
habit, all white, from head to foot, for the Beloved. You’d 

507 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


not know Passy now, so I send you a little picture taken 
by one of the children. I call it the carpenter-shop. You 
know for what. Studio is too grand a name for Mother 
Veronica’s workroom. I’m teaching the little Japanese how 
to carpenter sculptings for the houses of the Master. 

“Oh, Donald, see them, hundreds of little chil¬ 
dren, hundreds! See Passy in the White Nun’s 
habit. What a lode-star to her own race she is 
being! 

“In this one school we have five hundred children and 
teach them everything that would be useful in their lives; 
reading, writing, history, our Christian catechism, and the 
rest. Where w T e find special talents we cultivate them. The 
little ones must have the best, for they are the future of our 
race. Designing and sculpting are my part of the work. How 
they love it! We teach fine arts and applied arts, every 
branch of music, and countless practical subjects, sewing, 
embroidering, lace-making, book-binding, even boot-making! 
The children must all eventually help support themselves. 
Where they have no special talents we teach them trades, 
just as we do in our houses abroad. 

“Donald, think of it! This very Passy who writes 
was one of the unwanted children, one of the un¬ 
bidden!” 

“Thank God for such women as her mother, 
sweetheart. What else does she say?” 

“If I had consented to do the Sakya-Muni, my work 
would have ended there. Now I am training these hundreds 
to achieve what I hope will be greater work than Passy 
could have done. They will keep it up through future gen¬ 
erations—so it will be endless and increased a hundredfold. 

508 


WHEN ALL THE CANDLES ARE LIGHTED 


We do everything for love. You know about our leper 
colonies? We have entire charge of them in Japan, Mada¬ 
gascar, Molokai, China—wherever the afflicted ones may 
be. I think because the service is one of love, they are 
happiest with us. The rest of the world flies, terrified, from 
them. Our seraphic Saint Francis took them to his heart. 
Can we do less? Some day I’ll tell you about our Indian 
Missions. That's worth telling. But too long now. We 
try to instill in the hearts of our childien the great lessons 
of love for God, love for each other. Oh, my Joan, if 
this first principle of the Church could sink as deeply into 
the soul of the world as we try to implant it in the hearts 
of our little ones, there would be far less ‘war and rumors 
of war.’ 

“The message of ‘peace on earth, good will to men,’ would 
be a living, vibrant thing if only love were fully understood! 

“When Lady Diana saw how happy my life has become, 
she cried for joy. She knew how I had been downed by 
the intolerant world, hiding my poor self in the daytime, 
how I never dared romp or play or sing because other chil¬ 
dren, sometimes grown-up children, mocked and made fun 
of me, and ran away for fear of me. 

“Here inside my cloister walls I am as free as an eagle. 
My fields and flowers welcome me, and I laugh and romp 
and run about with these sweet little souls who feel that 
because I play with them, I am one of them. So many of 
us sing the praises of our Lord together that the harshness 
of my tone is lost in the volume of sound rising up to Heaven. 
Indeed, I sometimes think the lowly notes must filter through 
God’s incensed air in such a way that when they touch high 
Paradise they are made clear. Perhaps because we know 
they are not beautiful, our very will to praise God makes 
them beautiful. Who can tell? 

“For a long time there had been great stirring in an open 
field belonging to our convent. Workmen came and went 
and dug an enormous foundation, and walls rose up, and 

509 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


the sound of hammers sang the whole week through. I asked 
Mother Superior what it was, and she told me to have 
patience, I would see. So I asked no one else-, and, indeed, 
I doubt if any one else knew. Then a week ago, she sent 
for me. 

“ ‘Some one has come to see you,’ she said. I supposed 
it was my mother, for she and father had been in Kobe 
since the prise d'habit. But she said no, it was not my 
mother. ‘Perhaps it’s the architect of the new building,’ 
she laughed. Then I thought probably they wanted me to 
model a motif for the decoration. She led me to the long 
drawing-room. I looked about and could hardly believe 
my eyes. There, just as I had seen her so often before in 
Rome, holding out her arms to me, was Lady Diana. When 
I could speak at last, I said: ‘Mother told me it might be 
the architect for the new building, but I see now she was 
only teasing.’ 

“ ‘She wasn’t teasing, Passy.’ 

“ ‘No? Where is he, then?’ 

“ ‘Waiting for me to see you alone!’ 

“ ‘Not—Sir Lawrence?’ 

“She laughed, with tears in her eyes. ‘It’s my act of 
thanksgiving,’ said Lady Diana. I suppose I looked so be¬ 
wildered that she had to explain. 

“ ‘In Paris, out in the Bois, we have our little chateau, 
such a lovely one. And our children will grow up there, 
with everything Larry and I can possibly give them. But 
Passy darling, God has given us so much more than we had 
ever dreamed of having, in each other and in them, and in 
you, too oh my darling, and your beautiful vocation that I 
sought for a way of saying “thank you.’’ I prayed for light 
to see what would be most acceptable to Him. Then I saw. 
In Passiflore’s name, close to the convent where she lives 
and works, I will build a house for the care, education, and 
happiness of Japan’s afflicted children. It is to be big enough 
1o shelter hundreds of them. No matter how imperfect the 
little bodies or minds, they are to be cared for and taught 

510 


WHEN ALL THE CANDLES ARE LIGHTED 

to be useful where it is possible, but happy, in every case. 
They will be in charge of your own White Nuns, dear 
heart, and-it is to be called for you “Veronica’s House.” 
Oh, it’s a great many things, my darling* It is reparation, 
atonement, gratitude, consecration. God understands all the 
things it is, and He will bless it, that I know.’ 

“The next day she brought the little ones, Larry and 
Mary, and I played with them for hours, and our children 
danced with joy to see them. Sir Lawrence consults me 
about the new building, and I am to do a Saint Michael the 
Archangel for it! And my babies carry the clay and think 
they are helping me. Some of them begged to do the clouds 
about Saint Michael’s feet. I let them do it, the lambs, then 
when they are sound asleep I do their work all over, and 
they are none the wiser. 

“A little later they will go to Kobe to my mother and 
father. Mother wants to show Lady Diana the gardens. 
You know my grandfather lived long enough to forgive her 
and take her to his heart. He did not forgive my father 
—but father knows as well as mother and I, that God 
understands. If one has an unforgiving nature and not the 
grace to conquer it, he can’t be all to blame, can he? There 
are a great many things to be explained in Heaven. 

“They told me the news in detail about your Uncle 
Michael and our sweet Signora del Monte. The spring 
of both their lives had been so steeped in tears, and all the 
while our Master had been leading them out of the Valley 
of the Shadow into summer sunshine. The description of 
their quiet wedding on the feast of the Assumption thrilled 
my very soul. Wasn’t it good of the Trinita to let them be 
married in Mater’s chapel? I cried for joy. But I believe 
our Master will never do less for those of His children 
who wait in perfect submission His divine decree. It came 
to you, my Joan, to your Donald, too, and—in another way, 
to me. 

“Tell me about yourselves, all there is to tell. Meanwhile 
the blue arch of Heaven is the roof that shelters all of us, 

511 


THE CANDLESTICK MAKERS 


you and yours, mine and me, so there can be no distances 
that separate in any way at all. God keep you safe and 
bless you. My dearest love to both. 

“Passiflore." 

Enthroned on the half-buried marble bench that 
had passed out of the possession of Sardinian kings 
to be chair of state for later Lancelotti, Joan read 
and re-read the letter. And while she read, Donald 
lay at her feet watching the play of soft grasses that 
made a carpet all about them, watching the fling of 
spindrift out of the Aldobrandini cascades to the 
ilexes above and the tall poplars far below the ter¬ 
raced fountain, watching her face set like a jewel in 
the glory of rainbow light. 

“What will you tell her about us, sweetheart?” 

“About us, Donald?” 

“Yes.” 

While they spoke, the sparkling waters at their 
side sang a merry cadence, and a thrush-song sweet 
and vibrant rose to answer the crystal fountain as 
it went leaping down the hill-side. 

“I’ll tell her that her happiness is ours, too.” 

“You’ve got a joyous soul.” 

“Haven’t I reason to have?” 

“Really? I’ve a mighty prototype to live up to, 
you know.” He looked up at her with the whimsical 
light she loved so dearly dancing in his eyes. 

“Uncle Michael, you mean, Donald?” 

“Not exactly. Closely related to him-” 

“Oh, that! He never was. You are.” 

512 



WHEN ALL THE CANDLES ARE LIGHTED 


“His ghost has kept close to my heels—often and 
often.” 

“Silly goose! Haven’t you learned yet that all 
the dreams of my life were only shadowings of 
you, just shadowings, Donald?” 

“All the same, I’d like to lay the ghost. Joan, 
let’s bury him.” 

A handful of tiny twigs, a leaf for a boat, for a 
shroud a rose. 

Down the waterfall it sprang and scattered, while 
Donald and Joan watched breathless to the end. 

“Like a Viking to the sea, so goes Raphael!” 

“Viking to the sea,” echoed Donald. Then a 
laughing Joan clung to his arm, and looking up 
asked him: 

“What other news will I give Passiflore?” 

“You’ll tell her that the little yellow house is our 
very own? That candlestick-making goes on in her 
corner of the studio while Joan paints a portrait of 
the candlestick maker, from hers?” 

“I’ll tell her all about it. What else?” 

“That even old Rome has become a magic city 
because of the new love that dwells on the Pincian 
Hill?” 

“I will tell her that too, Donald, my Donald.” 

“Why, Joan, dear, what is it? What else is there 
to tell? Is there some secret I haven’t guessed?” 

“Oh, Beloved, Beloved, a secret that sends my 
heart dancing with the fountains! Donald, Donald, 
his eyes will shine like stars!” 

513 

























































































































